


The Girl Who Talks to Martin Septim

by DesertSkald



Series: A Dream of Dragons [3]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: ... technically, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blackmail, Blades, Depression, Dreamwalkers (Servants of Vaermina), F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Survivor Guilt, Thalmor, The fic where Amuril and Irowe meet, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Work In Progress, alluded to (not actually in the story)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-03-21 04:29:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13733166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertSkald/pseuds/DesertSkald
Summary: It is Sun's Dawn of 181. Six years after the signing of the White-Gold Concordat that ended the Great War between the Third Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion. Six months after the Treaty of Stros M'Kai that ended the war between the Aldmeri Dominion and the now independent if ravaged Hammerfell.And Amuril Malcior is tired, so tired...He joined the Thalmor so he could save someone - anyone - and atone to himself for being the only survivor of Rhuusa Gau. He spares those he can from the Thalmor's dungeons in Imperial City, but there are always more brought in by the other Justiciars, and he has to believe his work means something: that's the only way he can stay sane. His secret life is threatened when one of the Thalmor inquisitors learns what he's been doing when no one's watching, but maybe...Maybe if he can save her, it will be enough.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not dead! Just buried under a mountain of work at work - my boss is on maternity leave for another few weeks so it's not likely to get better until then haha /dead
> 
> That and everyone keeps getting sick because flu season is THE WORST and this year is worse than usual >.<
> 
> But have the fic where Amuril and Irowe meet while I work on tweaking _Omens_ ' first couple chapters. And _Trials_... And _Broken Dreams_...

DAWN filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Chapel of Stendarr, casting the many hues of the Nine Divines onto the floor. Primate Matius pushed the door to the dormitory closed, walking up the steps to the sanctuary. Even through the thick carpet, the cold stone was freezing on his bare feet, but he walked as steady a pace as his old bones could manage. The God of Mercy asked the truly penitent to endure small hardships - being very particular about bare feet and coarsely woven robes in his sanctuaries - so they never lost touch with those in need.

  
It was harder to bear in months like Sun’s Dawn, firmly in the grasp of winter, but Stendarr was fair and provided in all other ways so Matius would not complain.

  
He cleared his throat and patted the woolen cloak draped in bunches around his shoulders, his breath shaking as he reached the chapel proper. He went to the doors first, to check that the wood hadn’t swollen stuck from the cold and the rain last night. One door needed a push from his shoulder to break free, but the doors were open if any worshippers wanted in from the early morning cold. A glance outside showed that it had only rained, not snowed during the night and the steps only needed the coarse rug this morning (thank Kynareth). The rug unfurled down the steps to the cobblestones, Primate Matius retreated back to the relative warmth of the chapel.

  
It was then that he noticed a lone figure in grey kneeling at Stendarr’s shrine.

  
Matius frowned, looking back at the door over his shoulder, and its twins across the hall. _When had he...? No matter._ Matius tucked his hands into his robes and returned to the carpet, padding down the aisles toward the central shrine. Faint though the whispers were, his ears picked out a pilgrim-favored Hammerfell prayer as he drew closer.

  
“... grant me strength to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Grant me courage in the face of persecution when the cause is just. Grant me power to heal the sick and broken. Grant me mercy despite my failings, and lead me on the path of righteousness. By your will, bless this day-”

  
“And Stendarr bless you, my child.” Matius finished for him.

  
The stranger stilled as Matius walked beside him, setting a hand on the man’s shoulder. He could feel the stranger’s shoulders relax under his touch, but the man said nothing, nor repeated the prayer. The silence dragged on and Matius withdrew to check the candles around the shrines. A few of them were burning low, and he took more blessed candlesticks from the cupboard to replace them.

  
“You are a long ways from Hammerfell,” Matius said, “what brings you to our Chapel at this hour?”

  
The stranger rested his gloved hands on his lap, the grey hood and thick scarf keeping his features hidden from view. Matius admitted he was curious for curiosity’s sake, but he trusted Stendarr that if the stranger wished to reveal himself, he would in his own time.

  
“There’s a boy here. Hadrian.”

  
“Yes. He came to us a few months ago.”

  
The stranger was silent. Matius’s throat tightened and he turned, gripping a candlestick tighter than he should. “Has something happened to him?”

  
The boy was one of several dozen ‘cousins’ relocated from the Talos-dedicated Weynon Priory (a day’s ride from Chorrol) to the city’s Chapel of Stendarr. Most made the transition and made their peace with the change in their own ways, but Hadrian for whatever reason... didn’t. The boy had an unpriestly habit of spending the odd evening in the taverns and marketplace, attempting philosophical debates over alcohol. Debates, most worrying to the older priests, frequently focusing on his former patron Divine.

  
Such discussions were not to be had outside the chapel’s walls, not after the Concordat’s signing and the descension of Talos from the pantheon. The Dominion’s Talos-hunters had excellent hearing, and made little secret about paying handsomely for any rumors their ears missed. Hadrian had been told this multiple times, yet time and time again one of the brothers or sisters dragged him back inside, chewing his ear off about arguing over Talos in Fountain Gate District.

  
“He has attracted the wrong sort of attention.”

  
Matius set the candle down. He knew - they all knew - this day was coming, despite their attempts to protect him. Even Brother Bastian’s words would not persuade the boy, but...

  
Matius looked up to the sword-bearing icon of Talos, his shield-arm girding up his robes as he faced the chapel’s doors. He rested his hands on the simple wooden shelf underneath the mosaic. The Thalmor had come and made them remove the Ninth’s altar three months after the Concordat’s signing, leaving a visible stain - or absence of one - where it had stood for five centuries. They could not, however, stop the people from leaving flowers, gold or trinkets under the divine’s stained glass mosaic. Perhaps one day that would change, but Chorrol and the Chapel would fight them tooth and nail if that day came.

  
Hadrian might not live to see that.

  
The stranger stood and walked over to him, knees popping with age and stockings muffling the pad of his feet on the stones. Matius turned, still unable to see the stranger’s face underneath his hood, but the blood-hued halo of Talos fell on them both.

  
“They’ll be coming for him today. There’s no time to run, but take this.” The stranger said, holding out a small purse. “There is a fine that can be paid. This will cover it.”

  
Matius held his hands out, taking the purse but he could not help but frown. The pouch was small, and the coins inside so light, he found it hard to believe so few coins would turn away the Thalmor’s gaze. They had been known to arrest even members of the Count’s court or merchants in the market for making their thoughts on the Concordat or Talos known. Those they arrested were never seen again. He found it very hard to believe that a few coins could have prevented that.

  
“Stendarr bless you, my son. But... why? How did you hear of this?”

  
The stranger was quiet again. “I have to save someone.”

  
He walked away, returning to the carpet and picking up his shoes, not answering the question Matius truly wanted to know. Matius held his breath and his tongue, instead watching him walk up the aisle and to the door. His grey robes rustled as a cold breeze blew in, even on the far side of the chapel, but stilled as the door closed behind the stranger.

  
Matius rubbed his forehead and exchanged the candles under Talos’ stained-glass window. He would talk with Brother Bastian. Something had to be done. The stranger seemed sure the elves would come for the boy today, but perhaps they could send him away. Hammerfell was not so far from Chorrol, and the Dominion had no power there. If they acted quickly, they could find a navigator heading for the Battlehorn border gate.

  
The fresh candles lit, Matius tucked the old ones away in the cupboard. The cupboard door snagged the purse’s drawstring- Matius gasped and grabbed for it but it slipped through his fingers, spilling coins onto the floor. Matius shook his head and bent down. One had fallen further away than the rest and he held it up to the light to examine it before putting it in the purse with the others.

  
Matius hissed and the coin slipped back to the ground. He looked up to the door, mouth hanging slack. He took the coin carefully, holding it up to the light. His thumb rubbed over the image of St. Alessia and the Amulet of Kings, with the Dragon’s seal on its other face.

  
“A thousand...”

  
He frowned and reached into the purse again, setting down nine more coins on the counter one by one. Ten. Ten thousand. Matius turned, tears in his eyes, and stared up at the icon of Stendarr and his Cup of Mercy.

  
“Thank you...” Matius whispered.

  
He returned the coins to the purse, careful not to let even one fall out again. He turned again to the icon of Talos, bowing his head to the deposed divine who appeared still capable of performing miracles.

  
“Thank you...”

* * *

 

  
“... Stendarr calls upon _all_ of us to make ourselves vulnerable to his will. He commands us to be kind. We are commanded to be generous to not just our brothers and sisters but our neighbors and the foreigners. We are to be generous to the poor and those in need, not to persecute them.”

  
“We are to _help_ those less fortunate than ourselves. There are many in _this_ city’s West District who were left with only the clothes on their backs after the Great Fire. It is the dead of winter _six years later!_ And they _still_ have nothing! They have _less_ than nothing! And we _do_ **_nothing!_** ”

  
Primate Matius stared out at the crowd of faithful squirming in the pews, but their faces showed little more than discomfort at his words. He shook his head. “How long will you continue doing nothing, when it is within your power to act? Stendarr is not asking for your coin, but for your time and your hearts. Your _hands_ -”

  
The chapel door swung shut, echoing in the cold and cutting off Primate Matius’ admonishments. A few turned around and gasped, leading more to turn around. Matius did not continue with his sermon, instead standing straighter, the shepherd seeing a wild animal stalk toward his flock.

  
“Good morning.” Matius said. “If you are here for the morning service, it starts at eight, when the bells chime. Please try to be on time tomorrow, so you do not distract the congregation as you have today.”

  
The Thalmor Justiciar tucked his hands behind his back and walked forward, keeping silent. Matius’s gaze went to Brother Bastian and the younger priests two rows from the front. He didn’t see Hadrian. The Justiciar stopped at the beginning of the pews, looking out over the crowd. A few glared back at him, but most shrunk down or turned away, praying that if they ignored the elf he would go away.

  
“I’m here for Hadrian, of Weynon Priory.” A hush fell over the crowd. The Thalmor Justiciar straightened his shoulders. “Do I need to explain why?”

  
“That won’t be necessary.” Primate Matius said, the steady preaching tone coming back into his voice. “Your embassy has been made aware - multiple times in fact - that the members of our order from Weynon Priory are Priests and Priestesses of _Stendarr_ -”

  
“I am not here for your ‘brothers and sisters’ who have renounced their faith, I am here for Hadrian because he has not. That is what he said on several occasions in Fountain Gate-”

  
Brother Bastian stood, his hands shaking, and climbed out of the pew. He stood in front of the Justiciar with his arms outstretched, refusing to let him walk any further.

  
Bastian was here when the Dominion came and burned the Great Forest and Chorrol along with it. Matius still remembered pulling bodies out of the rubble, and the smell of them being left to rot with the ashes of their city. Too many of them were friends, too many of those they’d lost in the years since were because of the Fire - because of the Dominion. Matius climbed down from the dais. He would not - could not - stand by and lose another.

  
“You cannot have him.” Bastian said, his voice trembling and nowhere near as loud as it should have been.

  
“-Brother Bastian.”

  
“He is under Stendarr’s protection and you _cannot_ have him.” Bastian said again, voice still trembling but loud enough to echo back from the mosaic of Nine Divines at the chapel’s far end.

  
The Thalmor Justiciar stared down at him, eyes blinking. He was either tired or irritated that someone actually stood up to him. Primate Matius hurried down the center aisle as fast as he could without seeming rushed.

  
“I’m afraid the White-Gold Concordat says I _can_.”

  
“Stendarr recognizes your Concordat, Justiciar, unjust though it may be.” Primate Matius called out. “But Stendarr was the God of Ransom in days of old, and in our darkest days, so he is again.”

  
Primate Matius rested his hands on Bastian’s arms until Bastian lowered them. Bastian let himself be guided back to the safety of the pew, the small purse in the Primate’s hand catching his eye.

  
“Your own order states that for this theoretical transgression, the accused may pay a fine instead of submitting to your authority. We will do so.”

  
The Thalmor scoffed and snatched the purse from him, twisting the drawstrings open and pouring the coins out into his palm. His face fell at the sight of St. Alessia, a frown growing as he pushed the coins around with a finger and counted ten of them. The elf kept his gaze on the ground until the coins were returned to the purse, then he glared up at Matius.

  
“This changes nothing. Will you pay this fine again in three weeks when he repeats this Talos mistake-”

  
“You have what you came for, Justiciar.” Matius warned. “Take your blood money and leave.”

  
There was a long moment where the Justiciar refused to do so, and the chapel was silent. Matius’s ears perked up at the sound of crying from the pew two rows ahead, and someone trying to comfort Hadrian. The Justiciar turned on his heels and walked back up the aisle, slamming the door behind him. Hadrian broke down, sobbing into Bastian’s shoulder as the elf patted his back and shushed him.

  
Maybe now he would learn. Matius bowed his head and offered a silent prayer to Stendarr. He hoped the boy would learn.

  
“Stendarr provides.” Primate Matius offered simply to his congregation, walking back to the dais. He cleared his throat while Hadrian gathered himself, then continued on with the lesson. Matius couldn’t be sure, but he thought the rest of the chapel was a little more open to listening to his words than they had been five minutes ago. Matius looked up to the icon of Stendarr and his pouring Cup of Mercy. _Stendarr provides_...


	2. Chapter 2

SAINT ALESSIA and Chim-el Adabal blurred into a golden haze as Amuril’s eyes drooped shut. He sighed and wiped his eyes, counting out the coins with his eyes closed and confirming by weight and the feel of them that there were in fact ten of them and they were all the same. He hadn’t really checked all that well at the chapel when the Primate handed it over, but the coins had been his to begin with so if he was short one, he could supplement from his own purse. He’d done that before.

  
He pulled the drawstring tight and tucked the purse into his belt, pulling the dark purple hood further over his eyes as he curled up in the carriage. It had taken enchanting into the early morning for three nights to earn enough to pay the Weynon Priory boy’s fine, but he’d done it. Amuril yawned. It also entailed enduring doing business with the rival Synod and College of Whispers chapters in town, but he had reasoned he could sleep on the way back to Imperial City.

  
The carriage jostled again as the wheel crashed to the ground, coming down off another boulder in the road. Amuril hugged his sides and tucked his feet in, as there was nothing else in the carriage to hold onto but himself. He’d _assumed_ he could sleep on the ride there...

  
He rolled onto his back, still lying on the floor of the carriage. The curtains around the carriage window were swaying as the horses ran, but he could see the Imperial Palace looming over him as the city’s walls grew closer. The tower was illuminated, as usual, highlighting the flame scars that were too high for conventional repairs. Amuril sighed and draped an arm over his eyes. He curled up again as the carriage rolled too fast over the bumpy road.

  
The road smoothed and the carriage slowed as they came onto the main bridge to City Isle, passing under the smaller gates leading up to the city’s walls. Amuril wasn’t sure, but he must have fallen asleep as the next thing he remembered was the tingling sensation that he was no longer moving. Amuril sat up and stretched, patting the purse on his hip, and crawled out of the carriage.

  
The carriage had taken him to one of the stables just inside the Septim District’s gate. It was very late, but with the towering buildings and walls the few stars Amuril could see weren’t enough to tell the time. Late enough that no one but the guard was on the street, that was all that mattered. Amuril shivered and rubbed his shoulders. The embassy wasn’t far from here - closer to Green Emperor’s Way and the Palace than the main gate but at least it was still in the Septim District.

  
One of the driver’s boots scraped on the frozen stones and he stopped mid-turn, seeing Amuril outside the carriage. The man flicked his eyes up and down, visibly disapproving of the purple robes of Amuril’s uniform.

  
“Welp, Imperial City. Here you are.”

  
“Thank you.”

  
The man didn’t answer, didn’t even jab his hand out for a tip, instead heading in the stable’s doors to find the hostler. Amuril sighed and tucked his hands under his arms, heading down the main street and then north toward the Thalmor Embassy. It was a long walk, and he admitted he had his eyes closed for most of it. Eventually he found himself on the familiar avenue, with two Aldmeri guards watching the front gate in addition to the patrolling City ones. Amuril stifled a yawn and stumbled past them.

  
“The _dungeon_ , Justiciar.”

  
Amuril stopped and looked back at the guard watching him. Amuril huffed and shook his head, but diverted off the stones to the front door, to a dirt path that wound through the gardens. He blew on his hands and tucked them under his arms, walking through the perfectly manicured hedges and sculptures to the northeastern side of the embassy. The evergreen bushes and winter-blooming flowers faded as the dirt turned black and muddy, strands of straw tracking out from the shadows. Amuril shivered.

  
The Embassy was in the corner of the City’s inner walls between the Elven Gardens District and the moat of Green Emperor Way. In the Embassy’s corner, shrouded year-round and day-round by the walls surrounding it, was a narrow flight of stairs leading down to a guarded metal door. Amuril said nothing to the guard, hugging the slick walls of the stairs and trying to convince himself the liquid clinging to his gloves and robes was just frost. The guard unlocked the door and drew the deadbolt; the door creaked open and that horrible smell drifted out.

  
Amuril shivered, lips squeezed tight and barely breathing, before walking briskly into the barely lit room. Honestly, the inquisitors reveled in the stereotype of their work and refused to oil the door for _aesthetic_. That was also why the ‘dungeon’ was even called that (its proper name was something like ‘inquisition chambers’ but only the First Emissary called it that), and why it was always poorly lit and never tidy. The only reason they kept winding trails of straw somewhat intact was because no one wanted to slip and fall into whatever congealed on the floor.

  
It was effective however, he wouldn’t deny that. Nobody wanted to come down here.

  
The inner door, leading to the Embassy’s staff quarters and kitchens - the rooms visitors were not allowed access to - were on the far side of the dungeon. The outer door he just entered passed through the cells. Amuril kept his eyes on the straw, picking out the light-colored path from the darkness. He ignored the moans, the sobs, the sound of chains clinking together, but there was nothing else to focus on in the quiet. When he had to breathe, he did so quickly and through his mouth. The smell of waste, blood, vomit, pus and urine still caught on his tongue and stayed there, only muffled by the cold.

  
He’d spared the boy from Weynon Priory this. He’d spared the miller’s daughter, caught out of doors with a Talos amulet. He’d spared the watch guard’s son who showed too much interest in the outlawed Priesthood of Talos. He’d spared the Blue Road innkeeper who made little secret in his own community about the shrine of Talos in the woods behind the curing shack.

  
He ‘saved’ four people. The prison cells around him held ten times that number, with more fed in every day as those kept here either ‘confessed’ or died from sickness, infection or torture. Amuril bit his lip and walked faster. But... he _had_ saved four people. If he hadn’t done something, they would be in one of these cells, if not by his hands than someone else’s. That had to count for something. He had to make it count for something. It was the only way he could stay sane.

  
He let out the breath he’d been holding when he cleared the cells and came into the slightly cleaner desk area. It still reeked, but several fragrant candles scattered here and there at least confused his nose if it couldn’t take the stench away. The floor was dryer (in case report papers fell on the ground) and better lit (the inquisitors had to see to write) but the main reason why it was cleaner was because First Emissary Malcaron disliked getting his robes and boots dirty. On the rare occasion when he actually ventured down here, but those were random enough that the inquisitors learned to keep this area tidy. Most of the time.

  
Despite their collective love for all other aspects of the torturer stereotype and ‘creatures of the night’ status, there was only one inquisitor in the dungeon, their desk lined with mismatched candles holding the night’s dark and the cells’ stench at bay. Amuril tugged at the strings tying the purse to his belt and pulled the four reports out from his satchel. He cleared his throat and set them on the desk, avoiding the candles.

  
“Is that all?” The Inquisitor asked, thumbing through the scant pages in the bound leather.

  
“Yes. Everything should be in there.”

  
She opened the purse and peered inside, rubbing her fingers against a bit of soot on the inseam. She pulled the strings tight again. “Indeed. Good night, Justiciar.”

  
“... Night.”

  
She filed the reports away in her desk and set the purse in a drawer, then returned to her logs. Amuril sighed and walked up the stairs to the embassy proper, hoping there was a bed open somewhere in the dormitory. Despite the walk through the dungeon, he doubted it would take him very long to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Amuril lay in bed. It was one of the furthest bunks from the fire, but there was no one to complain to at gods-curse-you in the morning, so he’d crawled under the blankets and tried to fall asleep. He wasn’t sure when he had finally succeeded, he only knew he was woken up far too early by the other justiciars and inquisitors emerging for breakfast. His stomach grumbled but at least there were more blankets that weren’t being used, which he took advantage of.

  
He grabbed three off the nearby beds and picked up his boots and satchel, relocating to an empty bunk closer to the fire. Amuril laid down and cocooned himself in the blankets, fussing with them until he was finally comfortable. His mind conjured up a laugh at the thought of how ridiculous he must look, and emotion bubbled up. Amuril bit his lip and buried his face in the blankets and pillow, trying to smother them back down where he didn’t have to deal with them. Eight years - almost nine - and still...

  
Amuril wiped his eyes before tucking his face into the crook of his arm. He missed coffee.

  
The bed next to him creaked as someone sat down. Amuril kept still, trying to quiet his mind and go back to sleep. The other person coughed, and when Amuril didn’t answer, cleared their throat loudly. Amuril froze, and when they cleared their throat again he lifted the blanket enough he could see out.

  
“I’m sorry, is this your bed?”

  
“Amuril Malcior?”

  
Amuril peeled back the covers, brushing bright blond hair back from his face in an effort to look presentable. “Yes? Can I help you?”

  
The other person was a woman in the standard uniform robe, her hands in her lap. She had her hood up so he couldn’t see her face very well, facing away from the fireplace and windows, but it _was_ freezing in the room and he couldn’t fault her for not wanting cold ears. She unfolded and smoothed a wrinkled strip of paper - several strips now that he looked at them. All of them looked like they’d seen better days.

  
“Seven scrolls of water-breathing. Six scrolls water-walking. Three scrolls for atronach summons and twelve... circle of fire protection scrolls.”

  
Amuril stared at her. She smiled at him.

  
“That is how you’ve been paying the fines, isn’t it?” She whispered.

  
Amuril tried not to inhale too quickly, not to panic, but breathing properly was the last thing on his mind. The receipts from the Synod and College. The papers in her hand were the right color and size, and he could even make out the scrawl of the two Chorrol magisters as well as his own signature. But- he’d destroyed those - he’d _burned them_ \- so how-

  
She waved her hand and the papers glowed gold. “You really should be more careful disposing evidence...”

  
He stared at her. She had... she had _reconstituted_ the receipts? Had a scrap flown into the purse - or the report journals - when he tore up the papers? How had she even-

  
“What do you want?” Amuril croaked out.

  
This had nothing to do with the others. He had done this on his own. There wasn’t even anything technically illegal about it - he had checked - and frankly what he did with the money he earned outside the Thalmor was his business. Underhanded, yes, most certainly, but it wasn’t against the rules. Mostly because those that made the rules never thought someone in the lower ranks would attempt something like this.

  
 But it would be frowned upon, and if he wasn’t dismissed outright they would mark him up for writing too loud or being ten seconds late to a meeting. If he was thrown out of the Thalmor he would lose his contacts. He might even hurt them or get them caught. He wouldn’t be able to help - to save people - and he couldn’t- he _wouldn’t_ let that happen.

  
Two other justiciars entered the dormitory, finished with their breakfast. The echoes in the hall outside meant more were coming. Amuril clenched his fist, feeling the magicka flooding his veins. He forced his hands flat against the mattress, forced the magicka to dissipate. _This isn’t Rkumzuleft_ , he reminded himself.

  
The woman took his hand and leaned in. “The Tiber Septim Hotel. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”

  
Before he could answer she stood and walked away, slipping through the growing stream of people into the hall. Amuril ignored the looks and eyerolls from the other justiciars at his blanket attire, instead focusing on his breathing. The Tiber Septim Hotel. Six, at the Tiber Septim Hotel. What was her plan? Was she going to reveal his secret then to someone higher in command or...

  
Amuril blinked when realization dawned on his foggy morning mind.

  
He was being blackmailed.

  
He sat back on the bed and tucked his hands into the blanket, rubbing his wrists. He’d never been blackmailed before: he wasn’t important enough, or rich enough to attract that sort of attention. He supposed in a way he was moving up in the world, but not the way his aunts would be proud of. Amuril winced, picturing the things they’d say, the waving of arms and wagging of fingers he’d endured in the past. No, probably not.

  
He watched the other justiciars in the dormitory grabbing their last things before heading out to their duties. He didn’t know what she looked like, or what her name was. She was just another Thalmor agent who was wearing a hood at the time. He didn’t remember her eye color or remember _seeing_ her hair or- Amuril looked up. He knew so few of these people, she could be anyone.

  
He had no idea who she was, or what she wanted. His hands were shaking as he grabbed his boots and stepped into them.

  
The Tiber Septim Hotel; he’d never been there before but from the name it seemed an odd place to meet. _Could she..._ He shook his head before he even finished wondering if she was one of the others. They never contacted him in person, and when they met to discuss something - which was rare - he never saw them, only heard them. Even then, he was sure it wasn’t their actual voices he heard and not a spell or enchantment. No, this wasn’t like them. This was something else.

  
Amuril left the blankets bunched up on the bed and left to wander the embassy, trying to glean what exactly his situation was. He hadn’t been contacted by the others yet, and he honestly wasn’t expecting them to for another few days, if their schedules and his patrol rotations even matched up this time (they frequently didn’t). He didn’t expect any help from them, and he prayed he could find some way to handle this... situation, before they found out about it.

  
He wasn’t even sure if the others would approve of his philanthropic habits, even if it fell in line with (what he assumed were) their other goals. He knew they were undermining the Thalmor, in ways that became harder for him to see as the years went on. Amuril trusted them: they were... well, he didn’t have proof, and he doubted he ever would. The mer in Hammerfell had saved his life. That was reason enough to trust them for now.

  
When he poked around the upstairs offices, Amuril’s relief grew. Third Emissary Taurria - the lead inquisitor - was on some secret investigation up north, though no one could say how long she would be gone. The Second Emissary was also away (back in the Isles for some event or another) and not expected to return for another two weeks. That was some consolation. First Emissary Malcaron was in however, as was Ambassador Oterus, so he did need to be careful.

  
He did keep an eye out for his blackmailer, but no one acted suspicious, or even seemed to care about him as he walked through the halls. There was little else he could discover, and it was quickly approaching noon, so he set out for this hotel to investigate there.

  
“Aah- excuse me. Sir.” Amuril called out, hurrying over to a guard across the street.

  
“Can I help you... Justiciar?” The man said, eyeing his robes.

  
“Yes, I uh...” Amuril swallowed. “I’m sorry, I’m new to the city but I was told to meet a friend at the Septim Hotel? I’m- I’m not sure where it is or if this is even the right district.”

  
The guard stepped back, eyeing him again. “It’s the right district, elf. If you mean the _Tiber_ Septim Hotel.”

  
“Yes, that must be it.”

  
“Well, it’s at southwest corner of Center Plaza. That’s the plaza with the main circuit and the Tal- _Septim_ Gate road.”

  
The guard corrected himself hastily. Amuril said nothing but smiled.

  
“Thank you. Thank you- have a good day.”

  
He patted the guard’s shoulder and hurried away, hoping the man would stop fretting over his ‘misstep’ of nearly saying ‘Talos’ to a justiciar. Amuril didn’t care. He did try his hardest not to look back and check, in case the guard took that as a sign he was watching him or trying to identify him for later arrest. In a sane world, a normal occupation, that wouldn’t be something he’d have to worry about. Amuril sighed and shook his head, continuing the long walk down to Center Plaza.

  
The Tiber Septim Hotel was not, as he expected, a modest ‘hole in the wall’ but a small palace more than worthy of the former emperor’s name. It would have taken up a city _block_ , if the Plaza’s round streets weren’t in the way. A line of carriages - ornate and immaculate, unlike the one he’d ridden in - waited in the street outside the hotel’s main doors. There were doormen - _doormen_ \- and servants to carry in any items the entering or leaving patron cared to bring with them. There was even a black-trimmed carpet on the walkway outside the hotel, so patrons could walk free of mud from their carriage to the door.

  
Amuril leaned up against a pillar in the plaza’s center, pressing gloved fingers into his face as he studied the people coming and going from the hotel. He was going to need better clothes...


	3. Chapter 3

RUNNING down the streets of Septim District like he had just stolen something - obviously the embroidered tunic and long coat billowing behind him - was perhaps not the best of ideas. But he was late. Amuril was so very, _very_ late.

  
Damn the tailor, and his pin-happy assistant who stabbed him with needles too many times to all be accidents. That Dunmer had promised he would have the clothes ready by five-thirty - a promise made with rolling eyes but one Amuril further insured with gold. He’d bloody promised and they were still _sewing_ in the backroom when Amuril finally insisted on having the garments no matter what their state was.

  
Amuril stumbled to a stop as his knees quivered, leaning against the side of a building for support. He kept his eyes down on the pavement, pointedly avoiding the stares of people passing by. An Altmer in fancy robes attempting to run through the district attracted stares, especially when it was very clear he was used to neither the fancy robes nor the running. Amuril swallowed, holding a hand to his throat and casting a weak healing spell. He wasn’t particularly good at _that_ either but he managed, and started a stilted jog down the curving streets.

  
He wasn’t sure what time it was, but he hadn’t heard the bells from the Temple District ring six yet. He dreaded they would. He had spent the majority of the afternoon fretting over what exactly lay in wait inside the hotel, and almost trekked to the Market District for a coffee - something familiar - to calm his nerves. He didn’t though, but maybe that would have helped. It might have given him a little more energy to run with at least.

  
He was wheezing the next time he stopped, hands on his knees and his lungs gasping like he’d been half-drowned. The hotel, at last, was on the other side of the plaza. Amuril swallowed and stood up, fussing with his clothes and hair, trying to look somewhat presentable. He looked around and not seeing any guards, put his hand behind his back and palm-flat against the nearest wall. Amuril stood there, letting frost magic flow out onto the stone and running his hand as far up and down the wall as he could.

  
While still on the lookout for nosy citizens, Amuril brought his other wrist up toward his mouth as if to cover a cough. A few twirls of his fingers, a green or yellow light hopefully too dim to glow above the streetlamp light, and the sweat that had gathered onto his clothes dissipated. It wasn’t illegal or anything like that to cast magic in public, but it was still odd. Frowned upon at least.

  
When his back was chilled from the frost, he couldn’t smell the sweat on his clothes, and his breathing was slower, Amuril pushed off the wall and walked toward the hotel. The ice he’d left on the wall was thin and would thaw eventually. Hopefully. It was somewhat chilly outside...

  
The closer he came to the hotel, the more the hairs on his neck stood on end. It had been five-thirty when he left the tailor’s. It had to be very near six now - he was starting to think he’d somehow missed the bells. It had to be past six. He was late, he had to be.

  
Amuril hurried out of the path of a carriage, smoothing his robes when he reached the black-trimmed carpets outside the hotel door. A cadre of women dressed (in his opinion) inappropriately for the cold weather glided down from a parked carriage, barely noticing the doorman or attendants ushering them in. Amuril tilted his head and looked around. He was wearing an embroidered tunic and overcoat, both blue and an off-white color he refused to remember the name of, and plain dark pants. It was the only thing he could talk the tailor into selling him in his budget that was not (in his opinion) ugly.

  
Looking around at the other patrons however, his shoulders started to shrink under his clothes. His clothes were very simply detailed and made for comfort, not style. He hadn’t thought to invest in jewelry or cufflinks or to even do anything with his hair besides brush it. The only thing metal on his person that could be considered jewelry was his broken pocket watch.

  
He shrank further into his coat, miffed that Alteration and Illusion were diametrically opposed and he’d never bothered to try learning Invisibility. He’d gone through all this effort - spent money he would need to recoup in the Synod’s halls of enchanting - and these people made it look like he’d rolled out of bed.

  
The hotel’s sign swung in the breeze, giving him something else to focus on besides the inadequacy gnawing at his stomach. Perhaps... this was just a bad dream. He’d done little else all day, besides worry: easily attributed to a dream’s lazy wandering. He did tend to fret a lot when he returned from assignments, especially about his philanthropic habits being discovered and punished. Yes, this was just a bad dream. He would wake up now. Or now - anytime of the Aedra’s choosing would be fine, if they would be so generous.

  
The plaza echoed with the ringing of bells from the southeast.

 

Amuril shut his eyes, his heartbeat slowing down to attune with the six peels. The dread coiling in his stomach knotted and he swallowed. His gaze fell on the doorman, who was staring at him oddly. _Aren’t you going to come in?_

  
Amuril grimaced. He wanted nothing more than to run away, but... well, he had nowhere else to go after the war.

  
His feet shifted. A few moments later he took a step, then a languid second, and he joined the line from the carriages. A giggling young couple cut in just in front of him: one wearing a dress that covered everything _but_ her cleavage, and the other in a gown with a neckline plunging nearly to her navel. Amuril rolled his eyes and made a point to stare at the door, not wanting to bring up that they’d stepped in front of him. He’d never understood why women wore such things. Especially during winter.

  
He wasn’t given long to dwell on it as the line of richly-dressed nobles filed into the hotel. The chest-windowed woman produced a small folded card from a purse, handing it to the doorman. He glanced over it and smiled.

  
“Welcome to the Tiber Septim Hotel, Miss Ashcroft and Miss Gilvayn. Your table is reserved upstairs. Please enjoy your stay.”

  
Amuril’s eye twitched. An invitation? The two women giggled and hushed each other excitedly (something about the balcony) before hurrying inside. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen anyone else enter without speaking to the doorman. The doorman smiled at the women as they passed, turning his attention to Amuril and clasping his hands together.

  
“Thank you for coming, sir. May I see your invitation?”

  
“I... I don’t have my invitation.” The man’s smile immediately vanished. “I- I was told to meet someone here. At six.”

  
“Name?”

  
“Master Malcior.”

  
“Your _party’s_ name.” He clarified, the hint of indignation slipping through his tight smile.

  
Amuril’s face grew hot. “I... don’t remember. She mumbled it.” He lied.

  
“I see. Well I’m afraid I can’t seat you without further information. Wait inside, please.”

  
The doorman’s eyes remained on him as he slunk just inside the door, heading for a ‘corner’ between the wall and a potted plant. The next guest drew his attention away, and Amuril shrank down behind the bush where he prayed no one else would notice him. Amuril fidgeted with his cuffs and looked around, his stomach growing tighter as he looked around the lobby.

  
There was a long table with staff behind it on the far wall, and a flight of marble stairs leading up to a second floor. A lush, vividly red carpet draped its steps. In the middle of the lobby there was a large fountain, with a statue so unnaturally clean from algae, rust and time that it had to be enchanted. The statue was Tiber Septim in armor befitting a founding emperor, holding the Amulet of Kings out like a lantern toward the long wall of glass looking out over the Imperial Palace. Under his foot and pierced by his sword was a dragon, water spewing from its mouth near his feet and as ‘blood’ jetting from ‘cuts’ in its writing coils.

  
Amuril ran his hands over his face. Maybe they served coffee here. He doubted it.

  
He rebuttoned his cuff for the third time, biting his lip and glancing out at the people milling around. Perhaps he should mention, when the doorman finally deigned to deal with him after the line died down, that his guest was a Thalmor Inquisitor. He couldn’t imagine anyone would come to this place wearing an inquisitor’s robe, but it might help narrow down his blackmailer.

  
He frowned and thought better of it. It wasn’t a good idea to let people know he was associated with the Thalmor, even if he explained he was being blackmailed by them. Even if they did believe him, it wasn’t wise to tell that to people who would be serving him food and drink. Amuril sighed and leaned against the wall.

  
He scratched at his sleeves and frowned up at the ceiling, then down at the coat itself. It... _could_ have uses more than this one dinner, if it he enchanted it. He’d have to decide what to enchant it with but it would certainly be a good use of money already spent. He doubted it could be resold: it had been drastically taken in. There were few Altmer short enough - or men slim enough - to fit into them now. Perhaps a young Nord or Redguard, but...

  
His thumb slowed as a bazaar flitted through his mind; his hands slipped away from the sleeves down to his sides. Amuril shook his head. “It’s just nerves...”

  
“Amuril Malcior?”

  
Amuril’s hands shot up before he jerked them back down again, staring at the speaker. Said speaker was a white-haired Dunmer in red and black clothes that matched the rest of the staff. Somehow his simply cut shirt and waistcoat were more elegant than Amuril’s robes. Perhaps it was the barely noticeable embroidery of dragons and diamonds on the waistcoat, more a texture than a pattern. Perhaps it was because the older mer actually held himself like he belonged in the clothes and the hotel.

  
“Yes?” Amuril swallowed out at last.

  
A long nod. “Your room is this way, sera.”

  
‘Room?’ Amuril mouthed. He watched the Dunmer leave, his brows knitting together behind the mer’s back as he remained in the corner.

  
She had said nothing about a room.

  
The main doors opened again and Amuril hurried after the Dunmer up the wide stairs to the second level, taking the ruby-red steps two at a time until he caught up with the mer. Amuril kept staring at the others on the stairs, glancing up at the Dunmer to keep his bearings. So many odd outfits and clashing colors: was this what passed for fashion in the upper circles? It looked highly uncomfortable. The Dunmer paid little attention to the guests, making his own way up the middle of the steps and heavily hinting to those descending that they retreat to one side or the other. Amuril stayed in his wake.

  
The stairs let out onto a broad upper dining room, with the quiet murmur of polite conversation and clinking glasses or silverware hanging heavy in the air. It was bright enough to see by, provided one kept near the lit candles of the tables; but this time of night everyone seemed more interested in forgetting the world just outside arm’s reach. A group of players on a dais in the middle of the balcony’s ‘U’ provided background music: a lyre, a pipe, a fiddle and singing voices soft enough to be ignored if wanted.

 

_Red Diamond! Red Diamond!_

_The heart and soul of Men_

_Red Diamond! Red Diamond!_

_Protect us till the end_

 

  
He didn’t see any Altmer in the dining room. But then, the mer had said ‘room’...

  
Amuril tugged at his sleeves and shrank back into his robes as he followed the Dunmer, weaving between tables and under trays and out of the reach of gesturing arms bearing wineglasses. Suddenly they turned right, curving along the inner part of the ‘U’ overlooking the ground floor and fountain below. At the top of the ‘U’ were a series of doors close together, too small to have beds but large enough for a table or two. The Dunmer walked to the one on the very corner of the ‘U’, holding the door open for Amuril.

  
The room inside was small - private even - with a window aperture on the far side, looking out over the lobby and the fountain below. The word ‘intimate’ came to mind and made his stomach churn. Also inside, curled up in the corner, was the young woman blackmailing him. Her clothes were dark, gray in the dim candlelight, and her shawl only a shade lighter. The only real color was on her face and hands, pale gold to match the glass of wine at her wrist.

  
She looked up from the slim journal in her lap and folded it into a satchel, never taking her eyes off Amuril.

  
“Your guest, madam.”

  
“Thank you, Reldis. Another wine if you please.”

  
Reldis bowed and shut the door, leaving Amuril standing in this room barely big enough for the table and benches. Leaving him alone with her.

  
“Please, sit.” She said, finally taking her eyes off him for a moment to gesture to the opposite bench.

  
 It was a long moment before he slid into the seat, his ankles bumping against the molded sideboard. They hadn’t broken eye contact since he sat down. She hadn’t even blinked. Amuril cleared his throat, but that didn’t make it any less dry.

  
“I did tell you not to be late.” She said at last.

  
Amuril blinked. He hadn’t meant to. “I apologize. The tailor overstated his abilities.”

  
She raised an eyebrow. Was she surprised that he had gone through the trouble of getting his clothes tailored just for this, or that he didn’t already have an outfit suited for the occasion? Since he’d already broken eye contact, Amuril refused to make it again, making a point of staring at his lap, the table, his fingers.  Amuril rubbed his wrists, trying to press the tingling buildup of nerves out with his thumbs.

  
“And I didn’t realize you needed an invitation to get in the front door, so they stopped me outside and wouldn’t let me in until that man came and found me.”

  
“You’ve never been here before?” She blurted out, finally blinking.

  
Amuril looked up, accidentally catching her gaze. “I’ve had no reason to come here, before today.”

  
“I see.” She said, looking away and down to her lap. The slight arm movements looked like fidgeting, and he faintly heard something leather sliding against itself. The satchel, he suspected. “I just assumed - what with your family name - that you had done business here before.”

  
Her mouth opened as if she had more to say, but she closed it, pursing her lips together. After a few seconds of silence she reached for the wineglass, flinching when the glass tapped her teeth instead of her lips. She took a sip, then a long gulp. If her nerves were as bad as his, he had no doubt she needed it.

  
Amuril questioned _why_ she was so nervous. What did she have to be nervous about? His face fell as he began to wonder if this was her first attempt at blackmailing someone. Stars, that was all he needed: an amateur blackmailer threatening to ruin his life.

  
He ran his hands over his face. “What is it you want?”

  
She glanced up from her reflection in the wineglass. “To talk.”

  
A knock at the door made them both jump - she grabbed at the wineglass’s stem to keep from spilling. Reldis entered, perfectly balancing another glass of the pale wine on a tray.

  
“Your wine, madam.”

  
She nodded and gestured to set it down, and Reldis did so. He tucked the tray under his arm and paused a moment, waiting. When neither of them spoke he gave a little bow and exited.

  
The silence continued; she stared into the wineglass and he stared at her. After a long moment she pushed the full glass of wine toward him with two fingers. Amuril watched her nudge it to his side of the table, the wine wobbling just below the rim, watched her watch him before she returned to drawing circles around the base of her own glass.

  
He nodded, acknowledging the glass, to be polite, but kept his hands in his lap. Wine no matter how diluted was better than the water in Imperial City (and always had been to his knowledge) but he’d never seen the point of alcohol. When given the time he’d rather purify water in an alembic or take tea, which the Embassy kept a robust supply of. Neither of those had the same faculty-compromising effects that alcohol did.

  
She set her palms flat on the table in an attempt to stop fidgeting. “You were just on assignment in Chorrol. What is it like? I’ve never been there.”

  
Amuril frowned. He didn’t doubt she’d never been there, but he found it odd she would bring it up. Her fingertips were rubbing back and forth against the wood when Amuril said nothing. Was this some ploy to reveal one of the people he’d saved there? The Weynon Priory boy? The watch guard’s son?

  
“It’s in the highlands, in the Great Forest.” Amuril said.

  
He kept his tone mellow. Dull. Uninterested. This girl, odd though she was, was clever enough to reconstitute receipts from he wasn’t even sure what. He refused to underestimate how devious she could be - his had to be a trick of some kind. He wouldn’t volunteer anything if he could help it.

  
“How tall are the trees then? Are they very thick or is it more the wooded meadows down the Niben?”

  
“They’re very short now, since the Dominion burned the Forest during the war.”

  
Amuril grimaced. He remembered hearing the news in Taneth that the Dominion was approaching Chorrol. Rumors that it would be sieged like the Imperial City, from the inner circles of Thalmor and the half-starved townspeople. And then the unthinkable news, overheard jests in Altmeris, that the Thalmor never seriously considered taking the city. Kinlord Naarifin’s commanders set kindlepitch to the oaks of the Great Forest and let it burn north.

  
“The whole forest though? I find that hard to believe.” She scoffed.

  
“So did the people of Chorrol.”

  
She flinched then, perhaps getting the hint at last that he would not reveal anyone he’d helped so easily. Her hands retreated back to her lap, fidgeting again. Amuril turned his gaze away to the window. He wished she would stop skirting the subject and get to the crux of what she wanted already.

  
“I can order you something stronger than wine if you prefer.” She said quietly.

  
Amuril shook his head. “No thank you. I don’t drink.”

  
“At all?” She frowned.

  
“No.”

  
She looked from him to the glass, then the wall above him. Her eyebrows pursed together and her lips moved, but whatever she was thinking she didn’t say it. She shook her head.

  
“You must do something, you’re sitting stiff as a board-”

  
“I didn’t come here to socialize. I came here because _you blackmailed me_.” Amuril spat.

  
She sat up straight and stared at him. Amuril exhaled and shook his head.

  
“No, I did not.”

  
His eyes shot to hers. “You most certainly _did_.”

  
Her fingertips curled over the lip of the table. “I most certainly did _not_.”

  
Amuril leaned forward, hands gesturing, only to sigh again and sit further down in his seat. “Fine. You mentioned those receipts before requesting I join you for dinner.” He folded his arms across his chest. “ _Forgive me_ for taking that as blackmail.”

  
They sat there, sulkily glaring at each other from their respective sides of the table. Amuril kept still, feeling a vindictive sense of satisfaction as her fingers started fidgeting again in her lap. She scoffed and reached for her wineglass - then took Amuril’s instead.

  
Amuril’s mouth twitched. Yes, he wasn’t going to drink it, but she had gotten it for him. Now _she_ was going to drink it?

  
“Alright, maybe _technically_ it’s blackmail. But I was never going to report you so it doesn’t count. I’m even paying for dinner, if that’s another concern.”

  
“No, it is not.”

  
She ignored him and took a swig of the wine, holding her fingertips to her mouth as she swallowed. Amuril rolled his eyes, focusing on the faint golden embroidery pattern on the scarlet curtains, the Dragon bursting from a blood-red diamond. He frowned. Was that actually gold thread? It probably was; the longer he stayed here the more he’d be surprised if it wasn’t.

 

_Martin joined Covenant's Blood_

_Red Diamond was consumed_

_Akatosh cast Dagon out and_

_Saved Tamriel from ruin_

_Red Diamond! Red Diamond!_

_The heart and soul of Men_

_Red Diamond! Red Diamond!_

_Protect us till the end_

 

  
Amuril looked out the window, then to the door as the song ended to a smattering of polite clapping from the balcony. He heard her swallowing another mouthful of wine and couldn’t bring himself to care; only indignant that she had taken the glass he had no intention of using. The glass settled quietly onto the table. When he looked over, it was empty, and the other one was in her lap as she rubbed her fingers around the stem.

  
“Would it really kill you to talk about the weather? Chorrol? Something... magical you’ve studied?” She looked up at him. “Anything?”

  
Amuril made a point of looking out the window. He refused to betray the others or those he’d helped so easily. He heard her sigh and finish off the wine, a quiet chuckle as she returned the glass to the table. The laugh drew his attention. His glare softened as she wiped her face, and her cheeks looked redder than they’d been before. She took a deep breath and climbed out of her bench, soft thuds coming from underneath the table as she stepped between the table legs and around his feet. She stopped and smoothed her dress once she was out, hands stilling and slowly clasping around each other in front of her waist.

  
“I wanted to have a conversation with someone like me who _wasn’t_ on the receiving end of a shock spell.” She said. Her fingers clenched around each other as her voice cracked. She swallowed and stared down at the ground. “I apologize. I misjudged you.”

  
He frowned at that. She looked up, only so far as the wineglasses, before flitting back down to his feet.

  
“Your meal has already been paid for. Enjoy your dinner.”

  
She bowed far enough that styled red locks tumbled over her shoulder, but only until she stood straight again. The music outside washed in as she opened the door, and washed out as it closed behind her. Amuril sat there, staring at the door, his stomach starting to knot.

  
No, he’d done the right thing. This was the sort of thing inquisitors did: they used whatever means necessary to get information. Admittedly, he hadn’t heard of them trying to befriend their subjects, but emotional manipulation was exactly the sort of thing they would do. He’d heard it multiple times before on the rare unlucky days he went down to the dungeon during an interrogation.

  
Those people barely qualified as human beings. They’d either sold their souls or lost them bit by bit in the interrogation chambers. He refused to feel sorry for one of them, especially one that attempted to _blackmail_ him.

  
He huffed and crossed his arms, gaze falling on the empty wineglasses. Amuril glared at them and looked out the window. He was half-surprised to see a grey figure among the menagerie of colors in the lobby below. She disappeared into the antechamber a few seconds after he noticed her. Amuril watched to make sure she didn’t come back in, or meet anyone, his stomach gnawing at him the longer nothing happened.

  
Amuril settled further into the bench. A _very_ elaborate plot to learn who he was working with.

  
The players began a new song led by the fiddle, and the lobby slowly emptied as the guests were attended to. Amuril glanced over at the wineglasses again and grimaced. He didn’t feel sorry for her, he refused to be guilted into this-

  
The door swung inward and Amuril gasped, retreating deeper into the bench’s corner. The busboy threw up his dishrag in surprise, holding his hands out.

  
“I- Apologies, sir! I thought this room was empty-”

  
“It’s fine. I meant to be leaving anyways.” Amuril said, holding one hand to his racing heart and pulled himself out of the bench.

  
He stepped past the young Breton and out into the open air. Amuril exhaled. Yes, he would decide what to do about the inquisitor later. The rest of the evening was his, and he might as well enchant the robes he was wearing, though doing so would be... _complicated_ -

  
“Oh. Sir!” Amuril turned as the busboy ran out of the small room. “You left this under the table.”

  
He held out a pendant on braided cord that had seen better days. Amuril raised an eyebrow, looking from it to the busboy.

  
“Aah... thank you.”

  
The boy nodded and lowered it into Amuril’s palm, beaming up at him expectantly. Amuril blinked. _What, am I supposed to...?_

  
Amuril exhaled quietly and reached into his purse, handing the boy a few septims. The boy’s mouth went slack but he closed it quickly, grinning up at Amuril. “Thanks, sir!” Then he hurried back inside the room before Amuril could change his mind.

  
Amuril winced. Perhaps he should have only given one septim. He looked down at the pendant in his hand, running a thumb over the carving of... a bird? He frowned and glared up at the door. How did this look like it belonged to him? It certainly didn’t belong to the inquisitor, or anyone else patroning this establishment.

  
Amuril looked back down at the bird, holding it up and studying it in more detail. It was a simple thing, a woodcarving of a bird in flight, painted to look like one of the yellowbirds of the Gold Coast. The lacquer had worn off in places, but the paint underneath looked like new. Even so, the braided cord was more impressive, woven from multicolored strands in an intricate pattern.

  
The busboy walked out of the room carrying the two wineglasses, he nodded to Amuril and hurried away. Amuril looked back down at the yellowbird and sighed. Judging from the cord, and the care taken in restoring it, it was important to someone. He rolled his eyes and headed for the stairs, placing the pendant around his neck. Whoever they were, they probably wanted it back.

  
Amuril stepped outside the hotel and walked around the corner, the tension from his shoulders easing as he stepped off the sidewalk carpets. He looked around and once there was no one watching him cast Clairvoyance on the bird pendant. A twisting rope of blue-white light visible only to him appeared on the ground, coiling and heading south. Amuril sighed with relief and followed it, tucking his hands in his pockets and casting the spell from there.

  
South was away from the Thalmor Embassy, toward the Temple District and the Waterfront. Given the low quality of the pendant (and high sentimental value) he suspected it belonged to someone at the Waterfront. Possibly even someone who worked at the Hotel. The City was busy this time of night, but most were heading further into the Septim District.

 

Amuril enjoyed the walk and the time to himself. It was not how he would have wanted to spend the evening, but it was immensely better than the inquisitor’s dinner. The Temple Gate had little traffic and he nodded to the guards on duty as he passed under the stone.

  
One of them stepped toward him. “Watch your pockets, sir. We’ve had some trouble lately.”

  
“Aah.” Amuril said. He looked down at his clothes and bit his cheek. Obviously expensive clothes, likely worn by someone with plenty of coin in their pockets. “... Thank you for your concern.”

  
The guard let him pass with a sigh. Amuril waited until he was away from the gate and in the middle of the street to place a small shock rune on his purse. It wouldn’t injure anyone, just frighten them; their arm might tingle for a few minutes but they would recover after the scare. The faint purple glow was usually enough to ward off the lawless; if it didn’t, the rune going off would be warning enough someone attempted to rob him. Besides, after paying for these clothes it wasn’t like he had much coin on him, but there was no way for a thief to know that.

  
He returned his hands to his pockets and cast Clairvoyance again, then stopped. _Where was...?_ He turned, frowning at the coiling light behind him. He followed its path and his gaze softened, following the pillars of the Temple of the One to the roof, and the mouth of the Dragon’s Avatar craning out from it. Perhaps the yellowbird’s owner was praying for its return.

  
The temple inside was larger than the Tiber Septim Hotel, and the wide open sanctuary only emphasized this. The space was only broken by pillars, the occasional temple acolyte or devoted pilgrim, and of course the Avatar of Akatosh, frozen forever in the aftermath of its battle with Mehrunes Dagon. In the last days of the Third Era, it had been a man, an Emperor even, if the perennial rumors that Martin Septim had been crowned prior to his climatic duel with the Daedric Prince were true. Even if they weren’t, it didn’t tarnish his sacrifice.

  
Amuril swallowed, craning his head back to look at the Avatar properly. He was a boy when the Oblivion Crisis occurred, and remembered little more than the screaming, the fear, the smoke, the skin-crawling sound of a gate opening...

  
Amuril shook his head, running his fingers over the bird to remind himself he was here to return it, not sightsee and reminisce. He cast the spell anew, relieved to see it went straight to a grey figure standing before the statue. A good deed quickly done. The Temple District wasn’t even that far from the old Mage University. Honestly, it was close enough he didn’t want to trek back to the Embassy for his robes; he’d either settle for what he could make naturally or try and ply a spare off the enchanters-

  
“Is the boy alive?”

  
Amuril tucked the yellowbird into his sleeves and froze. He took a few steps back to give her prayers privacy, feeling that eavesdropping was especially rude in the temple. It was hard not to overhear her however, with the temple being so quiet.

  
“Is he in Skyrim? Is that why you wanted me to go there?”

  
Amuril tucked his hair behind his ear, glancing up at her as she looked up to the Dragon. Of course she was praying; he’d thought she would be, but... He fidgeted with the yellowbird hidden under his sleeve. Who this boy was that she thought the Avatar of Akatosh would know the answer better than she. A son? She didn’t sound old enough to have a child in a different province than her. A cousin or childhood friend perhaps?

  
“Martin, please talk to me. I’ve had a bad day. I don’t need this from you too.” She said, her voice breaking. She sighed. “I just wanted someone to talk to...”

  
She bowed her head in silence, her shoulders shaking. Amuril raised an eyebrow at her informal conversation with the Avatar but kept his comments inside his own head. He turned the yellowbird over in his hands again, casting Clairvoyance and confirming once more that this woman was who it belonged to. Yellowbirds were often associated with happiness. He rubbed his mouth and closed his eyes; what little he’d heard proved she could use some.

  
Amuril cleared his throat and walked forward.

  
“Tell me you at least saved Brol-”

  
“Excuse me- oh, I’m sorry. I-” Amuril coughed to try and hide his embarrassment. “I’m sorry, miss. I thought you were done-”

  
She turned and his throat went dry. The inquisitor stared at him wide-eyed, and he couldn’t help but do the same. She stumbled back against the short metal fence around the statue, gripping the arrow-headed posts.

  
“How did-”

  
Her eyes drifted down to the pendant and the words caught in her throat. She blanched and locked eyes with him. Amuril tried to swallow again, to help his mouth or his throat become less dry, but he couldn’t even do that. He pried his gaze away from her to the pendant, then back to her again. She hadn’t moved.

  
“I... believe this is yours.” Amuril swallowed and held it out.

  
He held it out for several long heartbeats before she took it with trembling hands. She couldn’t take her eyes off it. She looked up at Amuril, only for a moment, then spun to the Avatar’s statue, cradling the yellowbird and its cord to her chest.

  
“Martin, what...” She gasped and went quiet. Her shoulders started shaking again. “ _No._ ” She whispered. A shiver ran down Amuril’s back. She clasped her fingers around the yellow bird until her knuckles lost color.

  
“ _No!_ ”

  
Without further warning she fled, running to the door and throwing it open, leaving Amuril standing beneath the Avatar of Akatosh as the temple hushed and focused on him.


	4. Chapter 4

STANDING underneath the Avatar, all eyes on him, Amuril’s first instinct was to run. Not after the inquisitor, just out the same door as there was only the one. He had no intention of following her, or even returning to the Embassy tonight. He would borrow enchanting robes from the binder’s enclave and sleep under a table if need be.

  
Amuril cleared his throat and kept his eyes to the ground, walking briskly. Only lifting his eyes to check that the door was still there and there was no one between him and it. He didn’t breathe until he reached it, until he’d pushed it outwards and stood in the moonlight.

  
He pulled the door shut behind him and stood there resting against it to catch his breath. After a few moments he looked around, steadying his breathing and looking for the inquisitor. He didn’t expect to see her. He didn’t _want_ to. He wanted nothing more to do with that strange woman or bird pendants or even the Avatar. He wanted to have a nice quiet evening and forget the day and evening ever happened. Amuril tugged on his robes, straightening the creases and pulling the sleeves down to his wrists. He was going to do exactly that.

  
 He hadn’t cleared the last step before the temple’s doors opened behind him.

  
Amuril’s hands shot out to steady himself, gripping the short fence around the temple’s decorative hedge. A woman’s light steps echoed up the steps and her hand was on his shoulder before he’d fully righted himself from the near fall.

  
“I’m sorry- I didn’t mean to startle you-”

  
“It- it’s fine. Can I help you?” Amuril exhaled, holding a hand to his chest.

  
He stood up straighter, focusing on breathing and reminding himself that he hadn’t been ‘caught’ because he’d done nothing wrong. He’d been embarrassed for nothing he had control over, but he’d certainly done nothing wrong.

  
The woman removed her hand once she ascertained Amuril was fine. She was an elderly Altmer, much older than himself, dressed in fine but plain linens. Amuril stiffened, only relaxing when he recognized the Amulet of Akatosh hanging prominently from her neck. He forced himself to exhale normally. Not Thalmor, in fact he was sure he had seen her at the temple before. A priestess of some sort, but he wasn’t sure of her name.

  
“Matthias tells me a- a girl just ran out of the temple. An Altmer girl. Was that Irowe?”

  
Amuril sucked on his cheeks. “I don’t know what her name is.”

  
“If she was here, she was talking with Martin. -The Avatar.”

  
“Then yes, that was her.”

  
Irowe? So that was what her name was. Not that he frankly wanted to know. He did suspect he would need it at some point to track her down but he quickly buried _that_ particular thought deep in his subconscious.

  
“Oh, good. Well...”

  
The priestess clasped and unclasped her hands in front of her waist, finally bringing them up to her mouth and putting a thumb between her teeth. She looked down the road, then up it. Amuril glanced around but was fairly certain the inquisitor was long gone by now.

  
“I’m sorry but do you know why she was upset? Did she say anything to you?” The priestess asked.

  
“I’m not sure. I was just- she lost a pendant and I was returning it for her. I don’t know why she was upset but she ran out yelling ‘no’. I think at ah... Martin.” Amuril said, inclining his head toward the roof of the temple. The Avatar was not visible from this angle, but they both knew it was there.

  
The wind picked up, carrying through the Waterfront gate and over the walls the stench of the port and sewer waste. Amuril rubbed his nose, regretting that he hadn’t thought to dust his sleeves with a fragrance, but then he hadn’t expected to be near the Waterfront at all. The wind faded, and the priestess still hadn’t said a word, still staring off into the distance. She closed her eyes and pulled her fingers away, but only enough to move her lips in a quiet prayer without hindrance.

  
Amuril held his breath a moment and looked away, pinching rheum from his eyes. He really did want nothing more to do with this inquisitor this- he frowned. Irowe: that was what the priestess said her name was. He rolled his eyes, growing irate that he’d even remembered her name. The phrase ‘your blessings and mercies upon us’ caught his ear and he looked back. The priestess tapped her forefingers to her nose then turned to him.

  
“Are you a friend of hers?”

  
“No. I’ve never met her before today.”

  
She smiled. She seemed disappointed. “I see. Well thank you. Akatosh keep you.”

  
She bowed and Amuril returned the gesture. The priestess nodded and walked back up the steps, holding her robes so she didn’t trip. Amuril nodded to himself, staring down at the steps, the cobblestones, and the flicker of the streetlamp. He could wash his hands of this business, at least for the night, and attempt to salvage what remained of the evening.

  
He was very tempted to, but the niggling tingle of an unanswered question burned over his right temple and spread down toward his neck. Amuril huffed, staring out toward the Waterfront’s gate and the lighthouse looking over Lake Rumare.

  
He didn’t want to bother with this Irowe any further, but he had to admit he was curious.

  
“I’m sorry, miss...?” Amuril called out as he turned around.

  
The priestess stopped at the door. It was a few moments later before she answered. “Tandilwe.”

  
“Tandilwe. Why...” Amuril cast his gaze down to the ground and chewed on his lip. “Why does she talk to ‘Martin’?”

  
Tandilwe glanced again over the not quite empty plaza and descended the steps. “She said he saved her, during the war.” Her voice was quiet, unlikely to be overheard. Amuril’s ears twitched as his eyebrows raised. Tandilwe sighed. “And I think he’s the only one she has to talk to. Poor thing.”

  
She looked down at him then with a knowing look. The kind his aunts subjected him to near daily back in the Isles, and he was now impervious to.

  
Amuril sucked on his cheeks. No, he was not interested in having anything further to do with that woman, he was just curious.

  
“Thank you. Akatosh keep you.”

  
Tandilwe smiled and returned the slight bow of the head, and returned to the temple. The doors shut completely this time, and no one from the temple or the streets outside came racing up to him. The rest of the night was his to do what he pleased with, although the more he thought about it, the less he wanted to deal with the Synod in the old Mages University. Mostly he just wanted to peel off the unnecessary decadence the dinner had demanded, and sleep.

  
Amuril tucked his hands into his pockets and walked along the short railing around the temple. He wasn’t sure why he expected an answer that wouldn’t bring more questions.

* * *

The barely glowing malondo sconce opposite the door to the dungeon cast eerie shadows on the wall. Eeriest of all was Amuril’s own shadow, wavering in a pattern barely perceptible to the eye.

  
He couldn’t believe he was outside the dungeon. _Voluntarily_.

  
Amuril swallowed and stared at the heavily bolted wooden door again, questioning his sanity as well as his motives. It had been three days since that disastrous dinner with the inquisitor. With Irowe. He had tried not to dwell too much on it, focusing instead on his newly enchanted robes or creating more scrolls. More scrolls meant more coin, and more coin meant more people he could save. That was more important than an Altmer girl whose profession and interactions were incongruent.

  
_I wanted to have a conversation with someone like me who **wasn’t** on the receiving end of a shock spell_.

  
_Someone like me._

  
The thought that there _could be_ someone else in here, trapped like him, had eaten away at him when he lay awake at night or tapped his quill against the inkwell. Part in horrified empathy, part disbelief, and part hope that maybe there was someone equally unlucky he could commiserate with. He had contemplated asking the others about her, if there was any connection, if they had any insight. He hadn’t heard from them.

  
He could, conceivably, explain her actions away as being desperate for someone to talk to. The nervous sips and gulps of wine at the table made him wince as he remembered them. He had never been that anxious, but then he had the others supporting him. This Irowe was in the dungeon, and if Tandilwe was right, she had no one. He couldn’t imagine a more lonely existence, save being an occupant in one of those cells.

  
A door somewhere further up in the embassy closed and he jumped. Amuril sighed and shook his head, but reached for the door handle all the same. He was mildly surprised that the latch did not stick and the door did not creak. Then he remembered that First Emissary Malcaron had made a surprise inspection down here the day before, and the door’s departure from the usual aesthetic made sense.

  
“ _Good evening_ , Justiciar...”

  
Amuril did try not to stare. He was more successful at restraining the primal urge to engulf the mer seated at the desk with too white teeth in fire. The inquisitor’s tone suggested he would turn to vampiric ash upon death, but Amuril was almost positive the Lead Inquisitor knew the living or undead status of the mer underneath her. That said, he was even more certain that she didn’t care.

  
Amuril cleared his throat and stepped closer to the desk, ignoring the almost giddy way the mer leaned forward, elbows on the table with his hands clasped under his chin. He wouldn’t be spending that long in here anyway. Hopefully. Amuril cleared his throat again, thinking better of licking his lips (he didn’t want to appear too nervous).

  
“Is Irowe working today?” Amuril asked, glancing around the shadowed room in case she was hiding in one of the corners.

  
The inquisitor’s mood soured faster than the candle flickered. “That frost monarch? What about her?”

  
Amuril swallowed the panic nesting in his throat, pushing out the lie he’d practiced outside instead. It was a reasonable lie. A truth actually, in the past. The only other times he’d been called down here was due to the reports.

  
“She’s managing one of my reports and asked me to make an addendum. I wanted to get that out of the way before my next assignment.”

  
The inquisitor leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he folded his arms across his chest. “No. I don’t know when she works. Anything else, Justiciar?”

  
“She does still work here, doesn’t she?”

  
He worried that his concern showed a little too plainly on his face. _If she wasn’t in the dungeon, and she hadn’t been in the dorms, where_...? Amuril swallowed, wondering if something had happened to her since the dinner.

  
Amuril’s concern went unnoticed. “I wouldn’t know. She’s not exactly _sociable_.” The inquisitor glared up at him, letting his stare tell Amuril to remove himself from the dungeon. “Girls her age should be...” The inquisitor muttered.

  
“Thank you anyway then.” Amuril murmured, likely a little too softly to be heard.

  
He didn’t bother bowing, or excusing himself further, but made a hasty retreat to the door. He only allowed himself to breath once the latch had clicked shut again. Amuril leaned against the wooden frame, taking small solace in the glow of the malondo sconce. Wondering whether he should continue looking for her or if he had attracted enough attention already. None of the other justiciars spent time with the inquisitors outside of turning in their reports or prisoners, and he worried it would seem odd even if he lied that it was about work.

  
Amuril rubbed his nose, pinching rheum from his eyes as he looked into the malondo sconce. He had made an effort into finding her, talking with her. Eventually she would find out. What she did about it, he decided, was up to her.

  
He exhaled and dusted his robes, walking up the stairs to the main embassy. He really should take another assignment, but preferably a shorter one. He still hadn’t been contacted by the others yet - which wasn’t unusual - but given the events with Irowe he was growing concerned-

  
“What are you doing?”

  
Amuril yelled out and threw himself against the far wall. He put his hands up when the corner of his eye caught movement but whoever was hiding in the alcove put their hand to his mouth. And pressed harder than he would have, given the circumstances.

  
He calmed down, marginally, when nothing more happened after that. Then he realized it was Irowe pressing a trembling hand to his mouth and he glared at her.

  
“Stars and Magnus, don’t _do that_.” Amuril hissed, prying her fingers away and straightening his robes. He sighed but she seemed unperturbed, her gaze focused down the stairs listening for anyone else.

  
“I said I wasn’t going to bother you.” Irowe whispered. She leaned in. “So return the favor and leave me alone.”

  
Her face nearly pressed against his, red hair slipping out from her coif. Amuril fought the urge to sneeze. And just as suddenly she was gone, hurrying up the steps toward the embassy’s other chambers.

  
Amuril stared at the far wall a half second before running after her.

  
“-Wait.”

  
He caught her hand and held onto it, grasping tighter as she jerked away. She scowled and stomped back down the two stairs separating them. Amuril loosened his grip, but kept his thumb and forefinger wrapped around her wrist. Her hand was still shaking.

  
“I apologize.” He said. “For dinner. I-”

  
“I don’t care.”

  
“You said you wanted someone to talk to.” Her mouth twitched and the tremble in her hand picked up again. “Tandilwe said you could use a friend.”

  
She scowled and twisted her wrist out of his grip. “Tandilwe should keep her mouth _shut_.”

  
“She also said you needed to talk to someone who wasn’t a hundred and eighty year old statue.” Amuril muttered dryly.

  
He stumbled back further into the wall when she stepped forward into him. She wasn’t that much taller than him - most of her height came from being a step higher on the stairs - but he hadn’t expected her to move so quickly. To run, maybe, but not to shove him against the wall.

  
“Do you know what happens to my friends?” She asked, her voice low. “They _die_. Horrible, painful deaths. Do you want that to happen to you?” Her eyes searched his as his heart pounded in his throat. Amuril swallowed. “No? I didn’t think so.”

  
She withdrew and Amuril let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

  
“So go away if you know what’s good for you.”

  
With that, she departed up the stairs. Amuril listened to her leave, her footsteps echoing in his mind in place of thoughts. Her footsteps faded, heading off to the left corridor until he couldn’t hear them any longer.

  
Amuril blinked and stepped away from the wall. Then he walked up the stairs and turned left. He walked slowly, putting the pad of his feet down first so the sound wasn’t as obvious.

  
After passing three doors Irowe stopped suddenly. Amuril swallowed and continued walking toward her. Her head lolled from one shoulder to the other and a loud sigh echoed up the hall.

  
“Did you not hear a _word_ I just said?”

  
“I did.”

  
Irowe crossed her arms. “So you want to die?”

  
Amuril stopped, close enough to her that they could talk quietly without being overheard, but far enough back she couldn’t rush him as she had before. Or at least he would have a second’s warning this time.

  
He didn’t want to die. At least, not at the present moment. There were times, infrequent but often, when he didn’t wonder if it wouldn’t be better if he simply... stopped. It would hurt more for a moment, but only a moment and then the pain would stop.

  
A few things kept him here. The miller’s daughter. The guardsman’s son. The boy from Weynon Priory. To a lesser extent, the others. The understanding that Benji and most of the others were in the Far Shores, and without subscribing to Redguard philosophy, he wouldn’t join them.

  
Rationally, he knew he didn’t really have a reason to keep living, merely reasons for not dying. And on more than one level, that terrified him.

  
He was in a far better place than during the war, but the pain hadn’t gone away. It had changed, from a constant ragged bleed to a sore bruise that ached when he touched it. When his parents perished in the Oblivion Crisis it had taken time to adjust, but he had, eventually. He missed them, as any child would, but he didn’t sometimes dwell on joining them as he did his friends at Rhuusa Gau. Years had passed, enough that he remembered being at peace with his parents’ passing by this point, but he hadn’t moved on.

  
“I think I died a long time ago.” Amuril said quietly.

  
She scoffed. “Aren’t _you_ a little ray of sunshine?”

  
“I need someone too.”

  
She blinked at that, then narrowed her eyes. Amuril bit his lip to keep his words to himself until he was ready to say them. The only real friends he’d had, he lost in the war. His teeth dug into his skin at the memory of a rock-filled canyon, the things he’d done because of it. He had the others, but they were more... business associates than personal friends. Aside from the mer in Hammerfell, he’d never truly _seen_ one of them, let alone taken the time to chat.

  
He didn’t _want_ to chat with the others. He didn’t want them to know how afraid he was at times, to do what they told him to, or of what would happen if he didn’t. He didn’t want them to think he was unreliable, or unwilling, even if he _was_ less than willing at times. He didn’t want to lose them and be trapped in the Thalmor all alone.

  
But he had to admit he wanted to talk with _someone_. Someone it was safe to discuss his fears or disgust or unwillingness with. And he doubted that was Irowe, at least not until he knew her significantly better, but... he was certain the two of them could handle discussing the weather at least. That would be more than he had this morning.

  
“I need someone to talk to. And I don’t frankly care if there are risks involved, I... I’m not exactly in the safest of positions to begin with, I’m sure you’ve realized.”

  
“So what, if something happens just console myself that it would have happened anyway?”

  
“Do you want to spend the rest of your life being miserable, or do you want to spend at least _some_ of it being happy?”

  
He said it just as much for himself as for her, but she seemed more taken aback by it. Amuril exhaled. No one else was going to take steps to see that he was happy, that he moved on the way he knew Benji and everyone else would _want_ him to. The others weren’t going to ensure he was thinking properly and taking care of himself any more than needed to ensure the job was done. But maybe if he helped Irowe, she could help him as well.

  
She was staring at the corner of the floor and the wall, eyes unfocused and growing glassy. He wondered if she was thinking of her own lost friends, or family: whoever she had lost to the war. Perhaps it was selfish, but Amuril hoped she was coming to the same conclusion. The longer she stayed mute the more the pit in his stomach thrashed, reminding him how unlikely it was he would find anyone else he could talk with.

  
Irowe sighed, adjusting her arms folded across her chest. “It’s not like I have anything better to do...”

  
Amuril inhaled and chewed on his lip. At least it wasn’t a no.

  
“Thank you.”


	5. Chapter 5

SPIT dribbled down to his chin - slowly, maddeningly - as Amuril fumbled with the mate of the ribbon hanging between his teeth. He frowned and pulled the ribbon tighter, squeezing the braid against the back of his head. He wanted to look nice today, for once, or at the very least presentable. The more respectable he looked, the better his chance of actually getting an answer out of the booksellers at the Quizzical Quill.

  
The thin bead of spit continued winding down his chin as he wove his bangs into a tail behind him. Amuril released the tension once he’d run out of locks and draped the braid over his shoulder, spitting the ribbon in his mouth down to his lap. He rubbed his chin first before tying the ribbon around the braid’s end. Amuril sighed and reached back to feel how messy the braid was. It was tight at least, and he couldn’t feel any hanging strands that he’d missed. Presentable enough.

  
Amuril patted his thighs and picked up the outer robes and tunic that he’d laid out on the head of the bed. He’d enchanted the blasted robes and he was going to see that he got his money’s worth out of it, even if he did feel too much like a peacock when he wore them out. Amuril smoothed the tunic and ran his fingers through his hair, tucking the brush back into his personal chest. He scowled and jerked his fingers away, snatching up the satchel and heading out to the street.

  
It was entirely too bright outside, even for the early morning. Amuril squinted up at the sun, then right to the north. He was already heading to the Market District, and the weather was getting cold again. He _could_ stop for a cup of coffee-

  
“Where are you going, Justiciar?”

  
Amuril’s hands went up down and sideways before returning to a readied casting position tucked tight against his sides. Irowe stepped out into the sunlight from an alcove on the street, one that could be considered accessible from the dungeon’s garden exit, if one didn’t mind scaling hedges. Most importantly, he noted, it wasn’t visible from any of the Embassy’s windows or guarded paths.

  
Amuril glared at her, which only made the Khajiit-like grin on her face grow wider. “Out.” He said, refusing to give the inquisitor anything further. Let her work it out for herself.

  
With that he continued walking north, mentally foregoing the wistful cup of coffee as he heard her steps fall in behind him. He said nothing about her inviting herself along. He’d known her for a long enough time to know not to bring that up and risk her leaving without another word. And truth be told, he didn’t mind the company, though he imagined she would grow bored in the bookshop and excuse herself before lunch. He could have coffee then.

  
They stayed silent, Amuril aware of her but making no sign of it, and Irowe following him at a distance while doing her best to appear not to, for the few short blocks until the inner gates to Elven Gardens District. Once they’d passed one of the better repaired luxury apartments her steps softened and came up beside him, until she kept pace at his elbow. He held his arm out for her as a courtesy, but she didn’t take it.

  
“I put in an order from Bergama three months ago. It should be in by now.” Amuril said, tucking his arm back against his chest. He hadn’t honestly expected her to take his arm, but he could hear his aunts in his ear that he needed to at least _offer_ regardless.

  
She kept quiet. Amuril looked back as they waited for a carriage to pass, wondering if she was having one of those ‘I refuse to speak’ days again. Her face was scrunched up at the gutter, in thought.

  
“Order for what?” She asked finally.

  
Amuril smiled. “A book.”

  
Irowe rolled her eyes. “I should have known.”

  
The crowd began to move again as the carriages passed. They crossed the street but it was Amuril’s turn to glare in thought.

  
“What does that mean?”

  
“You seem like the sort that likes books. Reading. Studying.”

  
“Thank you.” Amuril said, unconsciously reaching back for her hand as the step up from the street’s gutter was higher than usual. She accepted it, for a moment, letting go again once they were on firm cobblestone. His steps slowed as he began to wonder if she hadn’t intended it as a compliment.

  
“What sort of book?”

  
Amuril shook his head and resumed walking. “ _Treatises on Alteration_. Fourth edition.”

  
“I’ve never heard of it.”

  
“Neither had I, until three months ago. Well- I read the previous editions, but I didn’t even realize there was a fourth. It seems there were enough of Salaron’s notes to make some addendums, and the one I requested was annotated with the thoughts of other scholars in Bergama. And...” He’d looked over at her as they were walking and wished he hadn’t. His smile faltered. “I’m boring you, aren’t I?”

  
Irowe’s ears flicked under her hair and her face softened ever so slightly, brows rising. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about but it sounds very interesting. So who was this Salaron?”

  
He hesitated, a tiny noise catching in his throat. Bergama was in Hammerfell. He had tried his hardest so far to not let on - to anyone - that he was from Hammerfell. The others knew, of course - they had arranged his passage to the Cyrodiil Embassy - but he hadn’t gone out of his way to bring it up to anyone. He shouldn’t have said as much as he did to begin with, but...

  
Amuril bit his lip. Alteration was one of the subjects he specialized in and studied voraciously. He would pass it off as something he learned via Alteration circles, not by his decades in Hammerfell.

  
“Salaron was one of the few court wizards of Sentinel, in Hammerfell. He served the kings and queens of Sentinel faithfully for nearly two hundred years. Once in 2E 372 he stopped an entire army of Ra-Netu ah...”

  
Her head tilted further than usual, so she was somewhat paying attention. Amuril struggled for a word. He hadn’t had to bother with translating or explaining Ra-Netu _ever_ really: in Hammerfell they were common knowledge and outside Hammerfell they didn’t technically exist. And the hallowed creatures had been explained to him so long ago he’d forgotten how they’d _been_ explained to a young fifty-something Altmer.

  
Amuril shrugged and settled on the simplest explanation. “The risen dead. They’re highly respected in Redguard culture, although the sentiment is rarely mutual.”

  
“Well, they _are_ risen dead.” Irowe muttered drily.

  
“Yes, they never seem to have much of their faculties left after the soul is departed. The Redguards have a very high regard for their ancestors, much higher than ours. For a Redguard to even harm a Ra-Netu is punishable by banishment.”

  
“So Salaron was banished even though he saved the city? Not particularly _grateful_ , were they?”

  
Amuril grinned and held a finger up. “Ah, but you see, Salaron found a way around this taboo. He admitted in his _Treaties_ ’ third edition that he used Alteration magic to cause the sea to rise, washing the Ra-Netu back out to sea and out of reach of the necromancer who had raised them.”

  
They stopped again, for another carriage. Irowe tilted her head back and forth. “Clever.”

  
“Yes, well, apparently some members of the court didn’t think so.” Amuril muttered as they stepped out to cross the street. “He passed in his sleep a year after the third edition was published, though everyone since Tiber Septim’s day has agreed he was poisoned. Magic isn’t highly-regarded in Hammerfell, one of the aftereffects of the Left-Handed Elves.”

  
“The who?”

  
“Aah...” Amuril paused, lost for a moment at the sight of the Black Horse Courier and their little corner of the market. The Quill was nearby. “The race of elves from Yokuda. They died out in the First Era.”

  
“Is that in Hammerfell?”

  
“Aaah... yes...” A cough caught in his throat. Irowe looked over at him and he felt his face growing hot. “Technically. It’s the original land the Redguards come from.”

  
Irowe turned back to the road and hemmed. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  
“You’ve never been to Hammerfell.”

  
They both fell silent as they crossed the street and continued walking toward the sun. A near-hoarse crier was shouting out the morning’s news over the bustle of the crowds. The crops coming in from the Golden Coast were less than they should have been, but expected given how few people the southern counties had after the war. The rest of the Empire’s citizens could expect food rationing but hopefully not shortages, and a cold winter.

  
Amuril’s lips curled with a twinge of guilt. The Thalmor Embassy would no doubt flaunt their own modest excess of foods and drinks to exacerbate relations. Ambassador Oterus wasn’t exactly a subtle mer. Regardless, he doubted he or Irowe would feel the winter’s effects as keenly as the people of the City around them.

  
“I suppose I should like to visit Hammerfell someday. I’m not sure it’s allowed now.”

  
Amuril looked over at her; after a moment she met his gaze, almost asking for permission to hear his opinion. It unsettled him, as he wondered in his gut if she had worked out that he knew more of Hammerfell than just cursory knowledge surrounding an aged Alteration tome. She was a surprisingly clever creature, but it was well hidden (even to herself, he suspected some days).

  
She acted so simple at times that, during those moments, it was hard to reconcile her with the mer clever enough to bring his scroll receipts back from ashes on a whim. They’d known each other long enough that he was no longer sure whether it was an act or not: she was genuinely clueless of much of the world outside the Embassy. Basic things, like the cost of a carriage ride or how to speak to a guard or merchant in a manner that wasn’t insufferably haughty.

  
Being kept in the dungeon most of her days was decidedly not helping her social skills...

  
Amuril conceded his opinion, but kept to a basic assessment of well-known facts. “They are not fond of Altmer, no. Give them a century or two to calm down.”

  
She nodded slowly, falling back into silence. Amuril tapped her hand and directed her to a small shop with books in the window, a large quill in the shape of a question mark emblazoned on the sign.

  
“Are there right-handed elves in Hammerfell? Or are they all gone too?”

  
Amuril stopped underneath the sign, the great wheels of his mind churning at the simple question. He had never stopped to think of such a thing before, or remembered reading or hearing anything about it. No one in Hammerfell or familiar with Redguard history (or mythology) really bothered much with the Left-Handed Elves. They were gone: the Ra Gada had killed the last of them an unspecified time before the loss of Yokuda. There was nothing left of them save that half-sentence worth of a footnote of history.

  
“I’m not even sure why they’re called ‘Left-Handed’ to begin with.” Amuril admitted at last, feeling frustrated and a mite embarrassed that he did not have a proper answer.

  
Irowe shrugged and stopped tracing her finger over the knotwork in the window shutter. The bell over the door chimed as he held the door open for her. Irowe gave him a bow little more than the dip of her head as she passed, and he found himself smiling at that.

 

It was a quaint bookshop, only three long shelves in width from wall to wall, but it stretched back and back through a labyrinth of shelves and tables and chairs. There was some incense burning on the counter, and candles lighting the tables where the windows couldn’t reach. The Quill seemed empty, but was smothered in quiet and a warmth that encouraged curling with one of its books.

  
They made their way to the counter and waited for the owner to appear, looking over the assortment of trinkets displayed on the counter and its shelves. Some carved gourds, painted wooden animals barely bigger than his thumb, and beaded jewelry - skillfully made, but glass beads were hardly worth much. Irowe picked through the jewelry, idly sorting them by color and how intricate the pattern was.

  
Amuril perused the few books that were on the counter, either held for coming customers or waiting to be returned to their shelves. Three were scattered volumes of the _Wolf Queen_ series and a recent looking book on the Great War, written by a legate. Amuril thumbed through the table of contents, his heart sinking as chapter after chapter listed defeat after defeat for the Empire, only broken by momentary victories, and then the decisive Battle of Red Ring. He set it down and put another book on top of it so he didn’t have to look at it.

  
The curved block pattern on the other book’s cover made him pause. _Chimarvamidium_. He could smell the heavy clogging stench of Dwarven oil burning, mixed with the copper of blood. Steam blasting into a room and the screams of the scalded-

  
Amuril picked up the _Wolf Queen_ volumes, setting them on top of the Dwemer fable so he didn’t have to look at that either. “Where is the shopkeeper-” He muttered, walking around the counter.

  
Amuril walked through the back door, rapping on the wood of a narrow hallway. “Hello? I’m here about a book order.”

  
An aborted snort shot out from one of the rooms on his right, followed by a large thump. Someone muttered curses and Amuril backtracked to the customer side of the counter. Just in case.

  
A gray-haired Breton woman rushed out of the hallway, adjusting her clothes in an attempt to shake off wrinkles.

  
“I’m so sorry to have kept you-” She wheezed and loosened the belt around her middle so it was actually visible between the folds of her chest and waist. “Normally that little bell wakes me up. Aah- you’re here about an order?”

  
“Yes. My copy of _Treatises of Alteration_ , from Bergama. I’m wondering if it’s come in yet. It’s been three months.”

  
“Bergama?” The quickly done half-bun atop her head waggled as she tilted her head and frowned.

  
“Hammerfell.” Amuril clarified.

  
“Oh!” She threw her arms up in excitement, sleeves falling on the counter. “Just had a wagon come up from Anvil this morning. I’ll go have a look. Aah-”

  
“Malcior. Amuril Malcior. It’s the Fourth Edition, the newest one.”

  
She nodded. “Bless you. Feel free to browse, sir, I may be a minute. Madam.”

  
She smiled at Amuril then Irowe, and trotted out of the room wringing her hands. Amuril sighed and flashed a wide smile at Irowe - she returned it - but the smiles left their faces just as quickly as their host. Irowe snorted and went back to sorting the bracelets. Amuril tucked his hands behind his back and did as the shopkeeper suggested, looking over the titles stacked into the shelves. Outside the general order of genre, there was no order to the placement of books. Some shelves were sorted by color, others alphabetically, others contra-alphabetically, some by the specific subject matter.

  
Amuril shook his head, trying to ignore the irritation building in his arms at the disarray of the shop. If he wanted order, he could always brave the First Edition and pay five times what the book was actually worth. While he could certainly afford it if he wished, he was a little too cheap to do so. The Quill was a hodgepodge, but also a convenient way of randomly finding new things to read. That was honestly worth more to him than an orderly shop.

  
The floorboards creaked behind him as Irowe appeared at his elbow. Amuril’s gaze flitted over to her before resuming his scan of the shelves. Irowe traced her fingers over the spines of the books, lingering on the ones with symbols and icons etched deep in the leather. She frowned, mouthing a title, and tilted her head. Amuril leaned over and saw the book was _The Akatosh Dichotomy_.

  
“If there’s something here you like I can add it to my order. It’s no trouble.”

  
Irowe jumped and recoiled her hand from the book like she’d been burned.

  
“Oh, thank you. No, I’m fine.”

  
“It’s fine, really.” Amuril shrugged, nudging his finger into the gap between the top of the shelf and the book’s spine to pull it down.

  
-Irowe placed her hand against the book’s spine and pushed it back into the shelf. “And I appreciate it, but I have little use for anything in here.”

  
Amuril pulled his finger back and took a step away from the bookshelf, raising an eyebrow. Her comment from earlier about him seeming like the bookish type seemed inarguably disparaging now.

  
“Oh? So you think you’re above books, is that it?”

  
He scoffed but she didn’t correct him, instead focusing on setting the _Akatosh Dichotomy_ flush with its neighbors, and pointedly ignoring him. Amuril shook his head, walking away to find another corner of the bookshop - and give her a chance to return to the Embassy on her own. ‘Little use for anything in here-’ _everything_ was in here. Cookbooks; romance novels; guides to crafting armor or setting bones; the history of most of Tamriel - not to mention the various tomes on magic that even common Altmer like herself could find use in. He rolled his eyes, wandering away from the religious section and waiting to hear the doorbell ring.

  
Instead his ears flicked at the soft creaking of floorboards and the feather-light touch of hands to shelves. He saw the shape of her appear around the corner - just a head and shoulders at first, but the rest of her came into view as she stood in the tight path between bookshelves. Amuril continued scanning the shelves, ignoring her as pointedly as she had ignored him moments ago. He could still hear her fidgeting with her hands and tapping her grey robes, but he refused to look over no matter how much his ears twitched.

  
“I didn’t mean it as an insult, I only meant I can’t read.” She said.

  
Amuril stopped, his mouth twisting and for a moment he was glad his back was to her. _How...?_ He turned around and stared at her. Why would she make up such an obvious lie- he’d seen her _read_ before. Perhaps not books but signs and such; prices of goods certainly. She was an inquisitor and spent most of her nights writing reports which would be incredibly difficult if she didn’t know what the words meant.

  
“I’m sorry: what?” Amuril finally asked.

  
Irowe rolled her eyes up to the ceiling then back down to the floorboards. He noted that she had not looked toward his face since finding him. “I can’t read Cyrodilic. I’ve never had a reason to.”

  
“You can’t read- what, they don’t teach it in schools anymore?”

  
“Don’t be daft, of course they don’t.”

  
Amuril shook his head. She had said it with such conviction though, and (to be frank) it seemed very much something the Dominion would have done to further separate its citizens from the Third Empire. He couldn’t say for certain however, as he had not been to the Isles since he was younger than she was, but he had no proof to counter it. If they didn’t teach it readily back in the Isles however, it did explain some of the difficulties of the other Justiciars or even the Inquisitors in tracking down Talos worshippers.

  
But he just couldn’t _fathom_ a world where a good majority of his race couldn’t read the common language. He couldn’t fathom anyone living in a world where they couldn’t read - and barely spoke - the common tongue.

  
“But that’s nonsense- How do you not- _everything_ in this city is in Cyrodilic. How do you _function?_ ”

  
Irowe crossed her arms, finally looking him in the eye. “I just _don’t read_. I _ask_ for directions, or serving suggestions. I act like a snobbish aristocrat and nobody bats an eye.” Her mouth hung open a moment as her bravado faltered. “... And if nobody helps me, I do without. Sometimes there’s enough Aldmeris I can guess - like your receipts and ‘Temple of the One’. And they have what I need back at the embassy, it’s just I don’t like it half the time.”

  
Amuril put a hand over his mouth. Her shut-in habits and behavior when he wasn’t around made that much more sense now. Why would she venture outside the embassy without him except to go to the Temple of the One, where there was a priestess who spoke Altmeris? Why bother, when she apparently couldn’t even read a _menu_ without someone doing it for her - which, now that he thought about it, she had coaxed him into doing _every time_ they ate outside the Embassy. It also explained her inability to follow simple directions - how would she know where Need-All-Thread’s shop was when she couldn’t read the signs, just the icons on them?

  
“Irowe, that’s _horrible_.” She shrugged. Amuril shook his head, walking over and taking her hand. “And we’re going to fix it. Come on.”

  
“What-” She pulled back on his hand, but not enough to tug her wrist free. “What are you doing?”

  
“Children’s section. This is an honest to Xarxes bookshop, so they should have one. I’m just not sure where it is.”

  
Amuril peered around, looking for the genre icons on the ends of the shelves. He saw her staring wide-eyed at him and slowed. It wasn’t a look of reverence or gratitude she gave him, but... confusion. He was assuming that because he couldn’t imagine life without books that she must want the same thing, which he knew was a terrible thing to assume. It was _books_ though, and general reading comprehension; a necessary life skill that he still couldn’t believe she lacked.

  
But maybe she didn’t plan to stay in the Empire long enough to use that skill. She surely could have found someone before him to teach her, if she wanted to.

  
“Did you _want_ to? I apologize. I should ask first.”

  
Irowe’s face colored almost as bright as her hair. She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I don’t see why not.”

  
“Good. We’ll have you reading the tomes of Shalidor in no time.”

  
The children’s section was two rows down and thankfully well stocked. He rattled off the contents to her and how long she took to answer was how he gauged her interest. Amuril stacked the ones she seemed intrigued in the crook of his arm. A fable about a shepherd and a wolf; a tale of doomed lovers; a book of riddles; a children’s prayer book; a book of colors and their meanings.

  
When Amuril began dropping some from the middle as they stacked more on top Irowe started fidgeting for them to leave. He took that as a sign to stop, and they wound their way slowly around the shelves to finish the long route back to the counter. Amuril set the books down and unstacked them, running them by her again to judge how interested she was in carrying seventeen books back to the Embassy. They could always find more, or order them as he had done with the _Treatises_. He didn’t place much hope in finding children’s books in the libraries around the City, especially given how barren they were of the usual dusty tomes.

  
Shuffling feet and heavy puffs heralded the shopkeeper’s return. She emerged from the back rooms redfaced, hugging a book the size of her arm to her chest. It slammed on the table, despite the care she took lowering it, and she shook her fingers out, brushing strands of grey from her face.

  
“Your book, sir.” She panted, flashing Amuril a smile. “It must be quite a read.”

  
“Aah. Thank you! Ah- can you add these to my order?”

  
She glanced over the eleven books that remained. “Oh, yes, easily done.” The old Breton flipped open the covers and marked down the prices scribbled on the first pages. She picked up the children’s prayer book, a soft grin growing on her face.

  
“Aah... Little boy or little girl? My granddaughter loves _Kolb and the Dragon_ but the _Riddles_ are always popular.”

  
Amuril frowned and looked from her to Irowe. “Uh- I’m not sure-”

  
“-We don’t have children.” Irowe said. The old woman chuckled, waving her hand before writing the prayer book’s price down.

  
“Oh. Well, I’m sure you’ll have them eventually.”

  
“We’re not married. He’s going to tutor me on reading Cyrodilic.”

  
The flush on the woman’s face from carrying the _Treatises_ was nearly gone, but flared back up again. “Oh! My mistake, I’m so sorry.” Her mouth hung open only long enough for her to realize it was doing so before she snapped it shut. She busied herself with finishing the rest of the prices and doing a quick total, circling the final number on the bottom. “Forty septims. -Aa-and you’ve already paid for your Fourth Edition.”

  
Amuril handed her four coins, making a point of smiling and seeming unoffended by the insinuation, even as the hairs up and down his back stood straight in indignation. They weren’t a _couple_. They barely even held hands and that was more to keep pace with each other as they navigated the streets. Not every mer and woman of the same race and adult ages were _romantically involved_. He couldn’t understand why _that_ was always the first conclusion complete strangers jumped to.

  
And honestly, he was at least twice - probably thrice - her age. That was disgusting. She didn’t have a wrinkle on her and his hair was nearly white. (It had always been a bright blond, but still, he was far older than her and that was his point.)

  
The _Treatises_ was placed in its own bag - she insisted there was no charge for the woven satchels - and the children’s books in another. Amuril waited until they had politely left to cast a Feather spell on the bags, though his wrists were threatening to fall off before the door closed. He hissed and shook his hands, rubbing his wrists and pulsing the spell through his skin while his hands blocked them from the street.

  
“I know a little park a few blocks from here. We could buy some food and read there, there’s plenty of shade.”

  
Irowe suddenly caught his elbow and pressed herself against his side, resting her cheek against his shoulder and batting her eyes at him.

  
“ _How romantic_.”

  
Amuril’s face twisted and he squirmed out of her arms. Irowe burst out laughing, bending over to hold her hands on her knees as her face scrunched up. Amuril rolled his eyes.

  
“If you’re going to be insufferable, I can postpone lessons until tomorrow.”

  
She continued wheezing but waved her hand like she intended to stop joking, when she could breathe properly. Amuril exhaled and rubbed his face, mentally reassuring himself his arm did _not_ feel very strange and in need of a wash, and his face was merely hot from the sun.

  
“How old are you...?” He muttered, bending down and lifting the book bags onto his shoulders.

  
Irowe reached for his hand and he jerked it away, glaring over at her. She grinned and kept reaching for it despite his repeated removals - he even hid it behind his back and under the book bags. There was a wicked glint in her eyes and for a terrible moment he was afraid she was going to grab for it anyways, but she walked around him and snatched up the point finger of his right hand. She held it gently, but firmly, and kept herself to just his one finger.

  
Amuril sighed and shook his head, allowing her to hold onto the small part of him as they walked down the street to the park.


	6. Chapter 6

CHERRY BLOSSOMS floated down in the Embassy’s gardens as a wind jetted between the walls and narrow buildings of Imperial City. One of the blossoms landed on Amuril’s sleeve, the other tumbled into the crease of the note he was reading. Amuril picked up the blossom and twirled it between his fingers, barely registering the flowers as the words on the page sunk in.

 

>   _  
> Stay away from the Inquisitor. She’s dangerous._
> 
> _\- a friend_

   
He exhaled shakily and focused on the flower’s stem, its five pale petals, how pink it was against the dark hues of his robes. Amuril folded the note up and looked around at the small corner of the garden.

  
He’d known Irowe for more than a year now, meeting in secret away from the Embassy. At her insistence they had been careful, _so careful_ about not being seen together. They rarely left at the same times, and it felt like he was always out on assignments so there were periods where they wouldn’t see each other for months. They’d assumed this would make it even more difficult for anyone watching Irowe to find out about him.

  
Amuril hadn’t thought he needed to keep her secret from the others.

  
To be honest, he thought they would be ecstatic to learn about him having a connection with one of the inquisitors. Especially since Irowe mainly worked by herself during the night watch, when reports or prisoners could be tampered with a low threat of supervision. She would tell him repeatedly (when they were alone) how much she hated interrogation work whenever the subject was broached. He felt it would do her a world of good to do something similar to his own efforts, to perform small miracles in the dark.

  
Amuril set the blossom aside and unfolded the note again, his chest shaking as he read the short words once more.

 

>   
>  _Stay away from the Inquisitor. She’s dangerous._

  
He scowled and looked up to the cherry tree. Irowe was not dangerous. She was clever, yes. Bored? Frequently. Dangerous? To him? No. No, absolutely not.

  
Amuril rubbed his chin and mouth, looking back down at the note. It was entirely possible the others just... didn’t know her well enough. She did have a prickly demeanor when they weren’t alone, but that was because she didn’t like being bothered. And her paranoia: she was very paranoid about everything. But she wasn’t _dangerous_.

  
He ran his thumb over the torn edge of the paper, feeling the dimples and bumps in the paper as he thought about the words written on it. He could show them she wasn’t a threat. It would take time, yes, but he could get her to open up with other people. He wasn’t sure how he could introduce her to the others, in a way that they wouldn’t outright dismiss her as they had here, but he would find something. She deserved a chance too.

  
Amuril sighed and shook his head, holding the note up and turning it to ash as he always did, for security purposes. He had a few days off between assignments and he’d promised to meet Irowe for reading lessons. Amuril poured the ashes into a small pouch on his belt and dusted himself off. Irowe would take great pains to avoid being followed from the Embassy. It appeared he would have to do the same.

* * *

  
The small park was (thankfully) abandoned when his long circuitous route led him there. Abandoned, save for Irowe sitting under a beech tree with her book bag. She smiled and waved him over. Amuril sat down, setting a cloth bag from the nearest bakery down between them; Irowe helped herself to a biscuit, grinning at him as she chewed. Amuril rolled his eyes and wiped crumbs from her mouth with his sleeve.

  
“Don’t get those in the book.”

  
She made a protesting noise mumbled through a mouthful of biscuit and swallowed. Amuril took the book from her lap and dusted any miniscule crumbs from the binding, handing it back to her.

  
“Now, we were on page...”

  
“Ninety-eight. I have it already.”

  
“So you do.” Amuril smiled over at her. “So: what happens next?”

  
Her eyes lit up as she turned her attention to the book, which was quickly becoming a favorite of hers. Unlike the others, this was an ‘adventure’ book. He suspected it was honestly the written down ramblings of boys and a storyteller around a campfire up in Skyrim somewhere. The decisions and their consequences were swift and harsh, sometimes bewilderingly so. However, he suspected that had more to do with the story coming from Skyrim than anything malicious in the author’s intent. Life was unforgiving up there: that was one of the many things that kingdom’s visitors agreed on. It was better to teach boys early on that the wrong decision could cost them their life.

  
The opportunity for her to choose what happened in the story however held her interest like a slaughterfish with a minnow in its mouth. Amuril refused to read it to her - she knew enough by now that she could make out the words on her own, it just took her longer than she liked. That meant however, that every time they had an hour free she was dragging him away from the Embassy to help her read it. It was endearing and amusing enough that he couldn’t really be mad. He was glad she was enamored with a book and being able to read it.

  
“Kolb step... _stepped_ out into the sun...” Irowe frowned and bit her lip.

  
“Light.” Amuril offered. “It’s misspelled.”

  
“Sunlight. Kolb stepped out into the sunlight and... _looked_ down the mountain. In a raven- ravine below, there slept the dragon.”

  
She paused there to beam at him, her legs bouncing. She had been reading through this adventure book for days, dying to swamp lights, pits in the caves, or even doing the sensible thing and raising her shield to block a blow. They had read through most of the choices in the book that ended in the titular Nord lad’s death, but this was the closest they had come to slaying the dragon.

  
Irowe wet her lip and continued. “Down the road, the last rays of the... sun, shone on a tavern.”

  
She ran her hands over the pages, fretting with the edges, her right thumb hovering over the two words at the bottom. DRAGON and TAVERN. Her hand went to her mouth and she bit her fingernails, frowning down at the book as she thought.

  
“So what do you want to do?” Amuril asked, leaning over. “Fight the dragon, or stay at the tavern?”

  
Irowe set the book down in her lap, her thumbs still toying with the pages. She stared up at the tree, brows pursed in thought. Amuril smiled watching her - he didn’t want to laugh at how hard she was thinking, but it was amusing.

  
“The sun is setting.” Irowe said at last with some finality. She nodded, growing more certain as the words were spoken. “I don’t want to fight that dragon in the dark. Besides, Kolb must still be exhausted from fighting the Orc.”

  
Amuril nodded. It was an excellent observation. Dragons were mythical creatures, but still beasts, and Kolb would be in a one-on-one fight. Besides, the locals at the inn might have information on this side of the mountain that Kolb’s village didn’t. Or perhaps there was a warrior like himself spending the night there that could be persuaded to help slay the beast.

  
He doubted the book’s author thought things out as far as he or Irowe did - it was a simple adventure book for young boys after all - but if this was the real world, he didn’t see much if anything wrong with her choice. Besides, given how unforgiving the author was with simple decisions like left or right, resting up before the titular fight was a wise move.

  
Irowe nodded, putting her finger on the page to hold it and turning back. “Page fifty-six...”

  
Amuril reached into the cloth bag and peeled off the end of the loaf, feeling around for the cheese and breaking a piece of that off as well. He pulled away from Irowe and the book, leaning back against the tree as he chewed. The leaves of their tree and those around them swayed in the wind, but only enough to kick up the lovely aroma of the park’s greenery and clean earth. The scent lingered, masking the common city smells from the street he could hear but not see.

  
Amuril finished the bread and cheese and smiled, listening to the sound of Irowe muttering numbers and shuffling through pages, whispering to herself in Altmeris and Cyrodilic. He closed his eyes and sighed, turning his face toward the sky. It was a nice day to be outside.

  
“Ahem. The tavern was warm and filled with the smell of roast... arr- arrok.”

  
“Auroch.” Amuril corrected without opening his eyes. “It’s a- I believe it was a large bull, but they’re rare these days.”

  
“That must smell terrible. Roast cow.”

  
Amuril smiled. “Yes, well, Kolb is a Nord. It must smell delicious to him.”

  
Irowe made a retching noise and he chuckled. “The tavern was warm and filled with the smell of roast cow. Kolb took a seat by the fire and the... High Elf barmaid brought him... biff.”

  
“Beef. ‘Roast cow’.”

  
“And brought him _blech_ with his mead.” Irowe said, making the retching noise again instead of the word. Amuril rolled his eyes. “She lean- leaned over, golden trech- tress... tressure? No. Tressuss... esiss?”

  
Irowe blew a raspberry at the page and looked over at him. Amuril raised an eyebrow and stared back at her. He had a feeling she was being difficult to try and make him read it for her. This was the farthest they’d come so far, and the dragon at the end was so close it was distracting her.

  
She leaned over and pointed at the word, her hands covering most of the rest of the page to make it stand out. Amuril’s ears flicked and mentally he apologized. That wasn’t a common word.

  
“Tresses. Locks of hair.”

  
“Oh. She leaned over, golden tresses framing her golden bress... barest-”

  
Irowe huffed and dropped the book in his lap, pinning the page down from the breeze with a finger. She tapped her finger on the page, looking up at Amuril expectantly. Amuril sighed, making a show of flicking the hair on his shoulders away, and picked up the book. As he read the section giving her trouble however, Amuril wished they’d thrown caution to the wind and fought the dragon.

  
“Aah... breast. Uh- ahem.” Amuril’s face was dusting deep bronze as he cleared his throat and gestured to his chest. Irowe stared at him. Amuril didn’t know what else to do but hand her the book back.

  
Irowe snapped the book shut, her thumb holding the page. “Amuril Malcior, did you _trick me_ into read a book of questionable taste-?”

  
“Of course not. Stop it and keep reading.” Amuril groused, putting his chin in his hand and looking at a laurel tree that was nowhere near Irowe’s direction.

  
She was not going to like the rest of this page. Curse that author, whoever he was. Amuril huffed and wrapped his arms around his knees. Not only did this branch of the book not end well, but it attempted to tease its intended boyish audience with suggestive behavior. _Attempt_ , at least. He had always avoided books of that nature before but even he could tell it wasn’t exactly titillating. Still, having it read aloud just made it worse.

  
“She _leaned_ over,” Irowe said, pushing heavily on Amuril’s shoulders with her own, “golden tresses framing her golden breast. Kolb thanked her and down- downed the mead, felling-”

  
“Feeling.”

  
“ _Feeling_ his face go hot. She walked away, he walked- watched her go.” Irowe huffed. “ _Pervert_.”

  
“Keep reading.” Amuril muttered.

  
“He had def... def-hour - devoured the ‘blech’ when he felt his hands go-”

  
“ _Grow_.”

  
“His hands grow heavy. Kolb stumbled to his feet and feel- fell to the floor...?”

  
Irowe’s voice trailed off as she pulled the book up to her nose, inspecting the words letter by letter to verify she’d read them correctly. Amuril sighed, counting the flowers around the laurel tree.

  
“What? Is _blech_ poisonous? Why would he eat it?”

  
“This one is.”

  
Irowe blew another raspberry. “Idiot Nord eating poisoned beef.”

  
She leaned back against the tree, lowering the book to her lap. Her face fell as it sunk in that they’d gotten Kolb killed _again_ , despite coming so close to the dragon. Amuril glanced down at the book, wondering if there even _was_ a section that ended happily somewhere in the pages. He knew that - realistically - the ‘adventure book’ was a series of choices put before young Nord boys, ones that would help them navigate the wilds and civilization. The choices were, if a bit dumbed down, life lessons that the author at least felt Nord children would grasp with little effort.

  
Either that or the author was a cruel and vindictive man, toward children no less. But Amuril was more certain the author was merely trying to teach life lessons and was (admittedly) terrible at it.

  
He wasn’t sure what lesson the Tavern was supposed to impart. Don’t lose sight of the goal when you’re so close? Rush headlong into one fight after another, because you’re a Nord and that’s what Nords do? Gathering information before battle is a fool’s tactic? Don’t trust elves ever because they’ll stab you in the back the second you look away?

  
Honestly, he could see all those morals as being the ‘correct’ lesson learned from the Tavern ending, but then he didn’t know any Nords and had never been to Skyrim. Skyrim was a very unforgiving place, and its people even more unforgiving about magic since the Oblivion Crisis (not that they needed a reason to hate magic). Amuril had spent most of his life in magic circles, as a student, tutor and teacher. He’d met Nord mages here and there, but they were a permanent minority next to their Dunmer and Breton peers. He’d seen more Argonian or Khajiit mages than Nords, now that he thought of it.

  
Irowe sighed and picked up the book again. They would start over again from the beginning once she’d finished the page. The point of reading this book was to teach her Cyrodilic after all.

  
“The High Elf maid walked over and helped herself... to his pocket?” Irowe stopped and looked over at him, a mock glare on her face. “Does that mean something-”

  
“Morwha, but you have an imagination.” Amuril muttered.

  
Irowe crinkled her nose. Amuril’s face went pale. Morwha? He hadn’t meant to- Divines, what was he thinking, swearing by a goddess from Hammerfell? Of course she’d heard him, and from the frown on her features she was no doubt thinking about it-

  
“Irowe, she’s _robbing_ him.” Amuril hissed, praying he could distract her and that it would slip her mind.

  
Irowe froze. “Robbing- they poisoned me? Him? What sort of horrible book is this!? Why would they poison a paying customer?!”

  
“Aaand I think that’s enough for the day-”

  
“It’s because they’re elves, isn’t it?” Amuril rubbed his temples. She slapped the back of her hands on the pages. “ _High Elves?_ It _had to be_ High Elves? Really? We don’t even live anywhere near them! It should be Dunmer. At least they have the unfortunate luck of living near them. Nords and- and dragons. Why Altmer?”

  
“Are you done?” Amuril asked, looking over at her.

  
Irowe crinkled her nose. “ _No_. I’m _insulted_.”

  
She folded her arms over her chest and glared down at the book like her eyes could set fire to that page in particular. Amuril sighed, his shoulders and arms still jittery from the mention of Morwha. He knew she had a terrible tendency to remember the littlest details if she thought it was important.

  
Amuril offered up a silent prayer to any of the Divines that patroned memory and asked that she forget. He trusted her, yes, but... he wasn’t comfortable with her knowing he had lived in Hammerfell at this point. Perhaps that would change later, but he couldn’t imagine being comfortable with anyone knowing he’d spent most of his life in Hammerfell. That life was over. It died in Rkumzuleft.

  
“Start over,” Amuril exhaled and took the book from her lap, returning it to the first page. “We’ll skip the tavern and head straight for the dragon this time.”

  
Irowe looked from the book to him, back to the pages she could read from memory but all the effort doing so implied, and back to him.

  
“Do I _have to_ read from the beginning?”

  
Amuril looked down his nose at her. “The point is to teach you Cyrodilic.”

  
“ _Slek Cyrodilic_.”

  
“ _Language._ ”

  
Irowe rolled her eyes. Amuril shook his head. He hadn’t heard her curse before.

  
She sighed, loud and dramatic, and tossed her head so the red curls resettled about her shoulders. Irowe propped her knees up and rested the book against them, clearing her throat. He could hear from her tone that she was once again foregoing the usual enthusiastic voice, as these pages she’d read a dozen times before. The fact that each time, it was after Kolb died a horrible or embarrassing death, certainly helped sour the mood.

  
Amuril felt into the cloth bag, resting his shoulder against hers to reach its contents better, and offered her a piece of cheese to sate her sorrows. Irowe leaned down and bit it from his fingers. Amuril hissed and jerked his hand away the instant he felt teeth.

  
“Ow! Irowe-”

  
She slumped her head onto his shoulders, sighing melodramatically while chewing. Amuril exhaled and carefully laid his head down on top of hers. That would teach her, though from the quiet snickering underneath him he doubted she viewed being trapped between his head and shoulder as a punishment. She swallowed and cleared her throat again; a shiver washed through him as he felt the sounds she made.

  
“In the days when the world was young and dragons lived among us, there was a warrior named Kolb...”


	7. Chapter 7

FOUL WATER sloshed in the channels underneath his boots and Amuril held his breath. It was the height of summer and as such the smells in the Imperial City’s sewers were even more rank than usual. The stench did, however, ward off anyone else who didn’t absolutely need to be in the sewers. He suspected it had similar effects on the local goblins and rodents. Mudcrabs did not have noses (that he was aware of anyways) so he did still need to watch where he stepped.

Amuril recast Levitation and tucked his hands into his arms, groaning as he exhaled and tried to inhale solely through his mouth. He could simply plug his nose, if he wasn’t wearing a full suit of conjured daedric armor, but he felt much safer with it covering every inch of skin down here. He had made a spell specifically for removing odors before venturing down here, but it was less effective on stains. He crossed the last bridge of the tunnel and waved his fingers, turning the wheel that controlled the doors with Telekinesis. He didn’t want to walk in or touch anything down here with his actual hands or feet, no matter how dry it was.

The wheel clinked and locked into place as the door behind him sealed and one up ahead opened. Amuril inhaled again and kept walking, trying not to touch the walls or levitate too close to the floor. He wasn’t honestly sure this was necessary to throw the others off his trail, but the letter he’d received still troubled him. Irowe was better read now, yes, but her social skills could do with some generous refining. She was still incredibly paranoid, for reasons she didn’t care to share with him.

Besides, he was used to this route: it was familiar (if foul-smelling) and therefore comfortable. Amuril reached the next intersection of tunnels and peered around, frowning, trying to remember which stairs led to the cistern he took up to the Elven Gardens District-

A scream and clatter of metal on stone echoed through the chamber. Amuril threw his hands up, shooting a magelight ball toward the noise. The ball of light stuck to the chest-plate of a guard waving frantically to try and ward the magelight off. Amuril dispelled the one magelight and cast another, letting it float over his head instead of at the guard’s eye level.

The guard blinked and waved his hands about his face, taking a moment to realize the magelight was gone. When he looked to the one above Amuril’s head the guard started shrieking. Amuril winced and put his hands to his ears. There was an audibly clank as his arm guards scuffed his helmet. His daedric helmet.

Amuril swore and ripped the helmet off, holding his hands out and open where the guard could see them.

“Don’t shoot! I’m not- I’m just a mage! It’s just armor! Calm- calm down!”

The guard’s screams continued for a few more seconds. The screams and echoes died down, beneath the normal wet noises of the sewers and the magelight’s chime. And the heavy breathing of both Amuril and the guard.

“Oh thank the Nine...” the guard said, just as loudly as his earlier screams. The man fell back against an alcove and rested his hands on his knees. “Oh Akatosh, I thought you was one of those daedra from the Crisis still wandering around the sewers...”

Amuril frowned. He would not consider himself an expert on the sewers but he certainly hadn’t seen anything more dangerous than a cutpurse or goblin down here. He would have done something about that if he had, especially a dremora. He tilted his head, trying to recall the known summoning limits since the crisis. It was more likely that any dremora conjured from Oblivion still wandering the sewers were left unbound after the Battle of Red Ring. But even that was highly unlikely, unless it was an extremely powerful dremora. And dremora higher than kynreeves tended to make themselves known within a matter of days, not five or six years.

He froze, mind going blank as he realized it wasn’t five or six years since the war ended. It was eight as of Second Seed.

It had been almost a decade since the war ended in Cyrodiil. Amuril shook his head, reaching out for the wall despite his reservations about its cleanliness. It couldn’t have been eight years. Amuril put a hand to his temple, trying to clear his thoughts and focus.

At least if it had been eight years that put the idea of any unbound dremora wandering the sewers into the ‘next to impossible’ category. Besides: the capital was firmly Synod territory, and the Synod would rather slit their own throats than dabble in Conjuration or anything like it. Mostly due to the backlash about summoning daedra in a city that bore the brunt of the Oblivion Crisis, which he couldn’t really blame them for.

“I- I haven’t seen any daedra wandering around, is that a danger?” Amuril asked, refocusing on the guard.

The guard squinted at him, his courage returning enough to let him stand mostly straight against the wall. “Maybe the reports have just been you. You come here often?”

“Sometimes. I...”

Amuril thought quickly. Reports. Plural. Multiple reports. Either there were dremora wandering the sewers (unlikely) or there were other people wandering the sewers in daedric armor (only slightly less unlikely) or he had been seen multiple times. If he had been seen, there was a chance it would get back to the others. That chance was higher if this guard went around telling people it wasn’t a daedra, just an idiot Altmer mage wandering the sewers.

“-I’m seeing a girl and my parents don’t approve. They don’t know I’m down here, please don’t tell anyone.”

The guard cocked his head and squinted at him. Amuril swallowed, hoping if he opened his eyes wide enough, from a distance he would look like the guilty but young boy he was trying to pull off.

“I’ve got to report this.”

“I’ll find some other bound armor spell to use. Please.”

“Why do you even need that?” He asked, growing bolder as he gestured to Amuril’s choice of apparel. “You’re scaring half the folk who come down here to clean.”

“There’s things down here. Have you seen the rats?”

On cue, a pair of mudcrabs emerged from the sewer’s channel and clacked up the stairs, sludge oozing off their permanently brown shells. Amuril looked down at them and tilted his head at the guard. The guard exhaled and rubbed his face.

“Can’t really blame you for wanting armor...”

“Please don’t tell my parents.”

The guard held his chin in his hands, staring up at the ceiling asking for pity. Amuril fidgeted with the chin strap of his conjured helmet, trying not to push more than he already had. If he pushed too far and the guard turned around and demanded to meet his parents to spite him, that would... not end well. It would probably end with him running from the guards and getting into far more trouble than this was worth.

The guard groaned and shook his head. “Stop scaring folks,” he said wagging a finger in Amuril’s direction.

“Yes sir! It won’t happen again.”

The guard poked around in the low light for the sword he’d dropped earlier, and a torch that was now extinguished in questionable water. The guard growled in disgust and tried shaking it out, waving Amuril by with it like a baton.

“Go on, get out of here.”

Amuril paused, swallowed, and pulled the helmet back on sheepishly. It was probably better if the guard didn’t get a good look at him. He walked past, stepping slowly and much closer to the ground than he normally liked. He hoped the sound of the armor masked the absent sound of footsteps on the damp stones. The guard got his torch going again and followed after Amuril. Amuril wasn’t sure if the guard had been sent down here to find the ‘daedra’, or if these sewers were part of his normal patrol, but he didn’t ask.

The magelight winked out and Amuril stopped, waiting for the guard to walk by with his torch so they could see where they were going. The guard exhaled and glanced up at him as they shuffled past each other in the corridor, running an eye over the intricate sharp grooves of the conjured armor.

“She must be a real looker for you to go traipsing around in the sewers to get to her.” He muttered.

“Oh, she- she means the world to me.” Amuril winced. Like a mer in love would say that.

“She must not have a nose either...”

Amuril glared at him from under his visor but said nothing. He did however decide to not offer his odor-removing spell once they reached the surface.

They both fell silent for the remainder of the walk, not even speaking to mention the smell of the fouled torch. When they reached the ladder the guard stepped aside and waited for Amuril to climb it. Amuril swallowed and did so, holding back a retch as something crusted onto the rungs crumbled under his gauntlets. The levitation spell hadn’t worn off entirely so he only had to give the appearance of using the ladder. That did still involve touching the ladder. Amuril hastily reached up and twisted the sewer grate off with a spell once he was in arm’s reach, hoisting himself into the open air.

He considered running off. Only for a moment. The City Isle trained their guards to have that hound-like instinct of running down fleeing prey. Besides, running made him look guilty and he hadn’t really done anything wrong. Plenty of people used the sewers for travel when the streets above were crowded. Only nobody wanted to admit doing so.

The guard pulled the grate back onto the sewer with a grunt, stamping on it to force the metal back into its stone grooves. Amuril walked away, back straightening as he listened to the guard’s tired muttering. There was an intersection in the grassy alley and Amuril ducked down it. A brisk walk had him around the corner and a hastily cast Levitation pulled him up to the rooftops.

Once he was on the other side of the square court, and safely on the northern roofs of the apartments, Amuril relaxed - a little - and dispelled the armor. He shook out his hair and waved his hands over his garments, letting the wind whisk away the last traces of the sewer.

On a whim, he skipped up to the ridge of the roof and stuck his arms out, trying to ‘balance’ while walking inches above the topmost tiles. He led the guard to believe he was a young mer; just this once, there was no harm being seen acting like one.

  
The second his shadow crossed the page she was reading, Irowe snapped the book shut and gasped in indignation.

“Where have you been?”

Amuril’s cheeks colored and he shrank back into his robes. It had taken him far longer than he liked to get back to the corner of the plaza where Irowe had agreed to meet him. Judging by the near-empty bottle of alto wine, she had been reading and waiting for some time.

“Evading my parents apparently...” Amuril offered, scratching the back of his neck.

“What? Your parents are here?”

“A story I told a guard. I was...” He froze mid-scratch, “somewhere I shouldn’t have been.”

Irowe glared at him a few seconds longer. “Well then I don’t want to know.” She muttered, tucking her copy of City of the Ancients back into her satchel. “I’m bored: where to?”

“Ah, I need a different bound armor spell. I don’t... frankly want to deal with the Synod.” Amuril winced.

He of course had access to the Arcane University - one of the first things he’d done in Cyrodiil was getting recommends from the various guild halls of the Heartland. In hindsight, it was obvious the Mages Guild was in its twilight years if not death throes. But back then, it was the early years of the Fourth Era, and he was a young mer then. Everything was new and exciting; he’d quickly learned that good standing with the Mages Guild was the easiest way to securing a bed and hot meals every day.

The dirtied white walls of the city and its echoing streets brought him back to the present. The only reason the Synod let him keep his access to the University was because he paid an appallingly expensive membership tax just to walk the grounds. The thin smile of nostalgia that had crept onto his face melted away. It was the only social interaction he had with mages these days, outside the Thalmor, but he despised being around people who so obviously only tolerated him because of his coin.

Lately though, they were the only reliable vendors of spell books, as much as he hated admitting it. One of the unfortunate side effects of the Synod being the only organization that still made spell books.

“Could there be some in a bookstore?”

Amuril nodded. “Could. Come on. Let’s see if they have some at the Quill.”

The Quizzical Quill was - thankfully - not too far from their meeting place. Irowe slipped her arm around his and locked hands as they approached the door. Amuril rolled his eyes but held the door open, letting her lead him in. They walked up to the counter where a young man in spectacles was stacking books.

“Excuse me, do you have any spell tomes for sale?”

The boy looked at them, finished stacking the three books in his hands, and adjusted his spectacles. “Yeah...” he tilted his head toward the back rooms, “this way.”

Amuril exhaled. He looked over at Irowe, the corner of her lips perking up as she swung their arms back and forth, and let himself smile back. It was a start, and if they didn’t have the bound armor spells he needed, the need wasn’t too pressing.

The clerk led them back to a small room - a closet really - with two short bookshelves on the sides and mounted shelves on the far wall. While the shelves were half-filled with books, Amuril couldn’t help but wonder how many of them were the same five spells over and over again. He ran his hands over the dyed leather covers, confirming they had the small Synod sealing ward pressing the pages together. The sealing ward prevented anyone from activating the inert magicka in the ink without paying for the book first. That wasn’t a money-grubbing scheme, as the Mages Guild had perfected that practice.

The inflated cost of purchasing the books was entirely the Synod however.

“Missus Lotte has the key to unlock them somewhere, but she’s gone for the day.”

Amuril nodded. “Quite alright. If I find what we’re looking for I’ll ask that she hold it.”

The boy leaned on the doorframe and cleaned his glasses, still hovering outside the door. The spell tomes were only slightly more organized than the general books of the Quill: they were at least grouped by color and thus schools. Amuril stepped back against the right bookshelf to better examine the cluster of green books against the doorjamb.

The front door’s bell chimed and the clerk swore under his breath, looking up the hallway and to them and back to the hallway. He muttered something under his breath and hurried back up the hall, the murmurs of a conversation filtering back after his footsteps faded.

Amuril scanned the stamped leather icons, annoyed that they weren’t ordered by spell type or even alphabetically. A weight swirling downward into spirals for some sort of Burden spell. Three copies of a small sun shining magical light for Light. Three bodies with the heart radiating against dark silhouettes for Life Detection. A wave of water with bubbles for Water Breathing. Amuril raised an eyebrow at one green book with a foot over the middle of a lake. He hadn’t seen anyone selling Sea Stride in years.

“What is this for?” Irowe asked pulling down a thin green book.

“Hmm?” Amuril glanced over, going back to his own shelves with a wave of his hand as he saw the key stamped on the cover. “Oh, Open is child’s play. I’m sure you learned that as a toddler.”

“And here I thought you were going to say it’s too advanced for me to read.”

“Hardly. It might be a bit difficult if you were taught the Summerset method. At least when I learned it, it was more Mysticism than Alteration...”

He scanned the books again. A shield. A shield surrounded by fire. Another light spell. Amuril’s brows furrowed deeper. Given the relentless campaign the Synod had against the old Bound Amor spells, he’d expected to find their Alteration-based replacements easily.

Irowe fell silent, turning the spell tome over in her hands. He looked over his shoulder at her when he saw it: an icon of armor. Amuril chuckled and walked around Irowe, picking up the spell tome. Stoneflesh. He couldn’t remember what level that was - when the Synod created these faux-armor spells they came up with (in his opinion) ridiculous names for them. Names he honestly had avoided learning but that would have to change.

He tucked the book into his arm and looked over the shelves again, but the only other Alteration tomes he saw weren’t armor spells. Irowe was picking at the lock on the Open tome. Amuril hovered over her shoulder. Unlock? She was probably feeling nostalgic; it must have been one of her first spells.

“Which version did you learn? Did your tutor make you ‘envision the keyhole’ before letting you try casting? Mine was obstinate about that.”

Irowe’s face twisted and she clutched the book tighter. “Er- yes. Yes, he wouldn’t even let me see the keyhole until I’d read the book back to front.”

Amuril blinked. He’d read over a few of the other methods - Redguard, Cyrodiilic and Khajiiti to be exact - but all of those focused on the practicality of it. Most of them were easier to use (or at least teach) when touching the locked object at some part of the spell. And while he was sure the Dominion had rebranded the passed-down Psijic method as ‘Aldmeri’ or some other nonsense, that method was taught via scroll.

“Oh, so... not the Psijic method then?”

“No no- it was the Psijic method. I definitely remember that.” Irowe said, spinning to him and holding the book to her chest.

“Well I’ve never heard of the Psijic method using spell books.” Amuril said, folding his arms and tucking his own spell tome in the crook of his elbow.

He frowned, trying to remember any other methods that involved mentally seeing the lock and using a spell book. It did sound like the Psijic method, apart from the words part, which honestly wasn’t needed on Summerset. Really, most of the spell was innate so all that was needed (for Altmer practitioners) was a visual guide of the finger movements and to what degree the wrist should be turned. It wasn’t exactly what other mages termed a ‘spell book’, and his scroll at least had barely had more than a paragraph of words on it.

“Can you show me?” Amuril asked, rubbing his brows. “The casting method is distinctive.”

She blinked at him. Amuril snapped his fingers and led her outside the spell tome closet, setting the Stoneflesh tome down outside before locking the door. He looped the key around the doorknob and stepped aside. Irowe glanced at him then stared at the lock, her face growing paler.

Amuril frowned and gestured to the lock. It wasn’t even that much magicka to cast, he couldn’t understand why she refused to just show him. Perhaps she was embarrassed?

“Irowe, I’m not going to ridicule you for whatever it is, just- well I’m curious now. I’ve never heard of this method before. Just...” he sighed, “could you please show me how your spell opens doors?”

Her eyes stayed fixed on the lock. She swallowed, then hesitantly reached out with her right hand... and used the key.

“Ta da.” She said in a small voice, waving her hand sarcastically for effect.

Amuril had been trying to not appear antagonistic - to keep his arms at his side and hands open - but this was testing his patience.

“Irowe, you do know an Open spell? For unlocking doors? Chests? I’ve seen you cast magic, I know you know some of it.”

She tucked the spell book under her chin and swallowed, then shook her head.

“What?” Amuril’s mouth hung open. “I’ve known you for four years! Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t know this spell?”

“I had a feeling you’d make a big deal out of it...” She grumbled.

“You don’t know any Open- how do you function in Summerset? They still assume you use these everywhere, don’t they?” He let his hands fall to his side, flabbergasted. Irowe shrugged, curling up around the spell book. Amuril ran a hand over his face and shook his head. “What other spells don’t you know?”

Her eyes stopped watering long enough to snap up to his face and glare at him. “That’s a rude and impertinent question, Amuril.”

“Are there any spells you would like to know?”

He opened the door and gestured to the shelves and shelves of spell tomes. All she had to do was ask, she knew that. He thought she knew that.

Irowe scoffed. “Oh, I can’t be taught.”

“Try me.” Amuril said, folding his arms. He heard her scoff again, but this time it was little more than a puff from her nose. Amuril straightened his stance, only standing taller than her because she was slouched, almost hunched over.

“Irowe, what do you think I did for a living before the Thalmor?”

She shrugged. “Read books and drank coffee...”

It was Amuril’s turn to scoff. “I wish.”

He ran his fingers through his hair and looked around, rubbing the back of his neck. One of the benefits of a small shop like the Quill was it tended to gather easier spells of the apprentice or journeyman variety. Of course, it also tended to gather multiple copies of those, but he doubted Irowe would have the willpower to master multiple differing spells at a time. Still, there should be some here she hadn’t learned yet. He’d taught her to read Cyrodilic, teaching her magic would be even simpler with his tutoring experience.

Amuril turned to the shelves, scouring over them for the simplest-looking ones. “There should be some simpler spells here-”

Irowe grabbed his wrist. He looked over at her and her head and shoulders shrank a few inches, but she did guide his hand back down from the shelf.

“They didn’t bother teaching me because I wasn’t good at it. I have no talent. Please don’t... don’t waste your time.”

Amuril twisted his wrist around until he was holding her hand. “Irowe. That’s nonsense. Skill is not something you’re born with, it’s something you learn. Talent is natural, but far more fleeting. I’d rather have a skilled mage than a talented one.”

She shrugged, focusing her gaze on a different patch of the carpet. “You’re just saying that...”

Amuril lifted her chin up until she was looking at him. “Speaking as a mage who started out talented and had to struggle to be skilled, no, I am not.” He squeezed her hand, hoping she would believe his sincerity. “At least let me show you how to unlock doors,” he said quietly.

Irowe’s lips curled up, but the rest of her face didn’t follow. Her feet shifted and Amuril began to feel increasingly uncomfortable with a hand under her chin. He hadn’t even thought before doing it, but perhaps it was making her uncomfortable. He moved his hand to her shoulder, then down to the hand holding the Open spell tome.

“... That does sound useful, but you’ll regret it.” She held the spell tome out for him and he took it.

“I very much doubt it.” Amuril grinned.

Irowe rolled her eyes. Amuril picked up the Stoneflesh spell tome, holding Irowe’s hand and leading her up the hallway. Amuril placed the two spell tomes on the counter and caught the eye of the clerk. Judging from the stack of books in his customer’s arms, it would be a while before they could reserve the spell tomes.

Irowe started picking through the knickknacks on the counter, sorting them into rows by color and size. Amuril laced his fingers into her hand hanging at her side. Irowe leaned over and rested her head on his shoulder.

Her right hand slowed as she sorted the last blue bracelet in between the greens and reds. “Thank you.”

Amuril chuckled and squeezed her hand. “You are quite welcome, young mer.”

He heard a quiet snort from his shoulder and she went back to sorting, focusing on the ceramic animal figurines. Amuril exhaled, admiring the scent of books and candles, and the comfortable warm weight of Irowe’s head resting against his arm. It would be good to tutor someone on magic again. He hadn’t done that in... more than a decade. Amuril handed Irowe what was either a long-necked cow or a misshapen lion to add to her ordered collection. It would be good for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just looked back at my dashboard and saw that _Omens_ hasn't been updated _since August_
> 
> O.O
> 
> That is next on the to-do list, hahahaha OTL


End file.
